


Apprentice AU

by Izvin



Category: 10th Century CE RPF, Kolekcia Bohatier | Bogatyr Series - Juraj Červenák, Mythology, Norse Religion & Lore, Slavic Mythology & Folklore, Былины о Богатыре | Russian Bogatyr Byliny
Genre: Abusive Relationships, All sorts of trauma, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambition, Apprenticeship, Bargaining, Battle, Blackmail, Burns, Buyan, Cheremisi, Chuds, Dependence - Freeform, Difficult Decisions, Dragons, Fights, Friendship, Harm to Children, Human Sacrifice, I guess this does stray to PTSD too, Illusions, Internal Conflict, Kievan Rus - Freeform, Magic, Manipulation, Mind Control, Mind Games, Mind Rape, Multi, Near Death, Peasants' Revolt, Permans, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Raiding, Runes, Scheming, Sexual Tension, Slavery, Suwar, Telepathy, Torture, Trauma, Travel, Undercover, Volga Bulgaria, War, Zilantaw, scouting, sorta???, swamp, trap
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-09-17
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 43,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25342315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izvin/pseuds/Izvin
Summary: What if events at the end of Oceľové žezlo transpired a bit differently? On the first glance all looks the same – Volch loses his fight and Ilja reaches the top of Zilantaw too late to do anything else but mortally wound the dragon on which Tugarin escapes. But with the little twist of Tugarin already wanting an assistant (before hearing about mankurts – zombielike thralls) and Volch keeping some leverage and choosing what looks like lesser evil and an opportunity. Books for a page or so threaten us with scenario of brainwashed servitude and I’d try that with a tiny little bit less brainwash. Basically an attempt to have Volch walk through events of the trilogy without becoming Koščej, but still exploring damage and traps of seeking power and dealing with Tugarin.EDIT - This project has clear completed scenario, it only needs to be written down with all the details. When that will happen, I know not. First five chapters are completed. The rest is raw material - fleshed out scenes and explanations in between.
Kudos: 2





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I like their names as written in the books too much to go into more English versions. I settled for using English terms in case of geography and ethnicities, but I am just too attached to personal names and I don’t care how weird it might look. But it might create confusion. Now, while ch in Slavutich stands for “č” - tʃ (as in church), ch in Volch is not to be pronounced as tʃ, but χ (as in Loch Ness). English usually uses „kh“ (as in khan).

**T** he malachite sceptre breaks, his connection to magic straining and that gives surge to panic which tears even through dizziness and power blast. Volch dives for a falling bit of scale, snatches it with his left hand and presses against his chest as if his very life was within it.

Down on his knees with that piece of silver tightly clutched, he swings his sword at Tugarin's ankles. To no avail. White haired mage steps outside his reach and stations his steel sceptre in the way of his strike instead. The collision makes the blade break. With desperate howl he throws himself forward and tries to stab him with jagged end of the weapon. He tears through Tugarin's robe, but doesn't so much as graze him. Only falls on walkway and barely dodges a hit of the sceptre.

He stops rolling at the edge of stairs, just a little more and he would be falling down. He looks up back at Tugarin, who is all amused and greedily staring at a silver shard in Volch’s grip. _He wants it painfully much, doesn't he? Well..._ Tugarin moves closer and Volch leans into emptiness.

"I'll jump. My comrade is down there, he will reach my body sooner and you will not get my piece of scale."

_Mine, mine, mine..._

Tugarin pauses and smiles.

"You would, wouldn't you? Just to keep it."

He pushes the steel sceptre from one hand into another playfully, eyes of dragon, that is perched above them and covers nearly all of Volch's vision, follow the movement helplessly. And Volch shifts his grip on his piece of the scale to let a little bit more of its light shine through. The sceptre might be gone, but he still owns this, wields this... Zilant blinks, his eyes drawn to Volch now too. They jump between the two sources of silver light.

Tugarin notices though, laughs and hits the ground with the other end of his sceptre, second piece of scale shining brighter, dragon refocusing back on his original master and tremors traveling through stone send few pebbles beneath Volch's back tumbling into depth of Zilantaw. He grits his teeth.

"It is why you came. Saving Svjatoslav's forces and all that is very nice, but you have one more reason. You want this."

He looks him over somewhat appreciatively.

"Zilant would suit you awfully much, on that I agree."

He looks back into Volch’s eyes.

"And you'd rather die, than have it taken from you."

He crouches, his voice softer.

"But what if I told you, it doesn't have to be this way. You or me. What if I told you, we could cooperate. There is much more to desire than Zirnytra’s scale. The one wielding it matters too. And there is much more to acquire than its two missing pieces. An ally that is cut from the same cloth would come in handy. So pray tell me, Volch Vseslajevič, rather than die defiantly, wouldn't you prefer to win by joining me?"

He feels leaden weight in his insides, cold seeping everywhere. Great black Zilant above, noble death bellow and facts all too clear in Tugarin's smiling features and terribly bright eyes. He won't save anyone with his death, Tugarin will just fly away after his thing, too powerful to take down even without his piece. Pointless sacrifice. In the end... It is not much different than pledging himself to Ruriks. If you cannot beat them, join them. And see what you can do once there. To fight another day. To come on top later. Kiev taught him that. And there was something deeply ironic about the situation. Bitter-sweetly and heartbreakingly.

"Fake my death. As if he has eaten me. People are watching and this is my price."

The real price being, that with him in Zilant's cavity, there will be no fire-breathing, if Tugarin truly wants to keep him alive.

"As you wish."

He distantly hears Ilja's screams, but his whole attention is consumed by large jaws full of sharp teeth and wet darkness. _Zirnitra, stay with me, oh please, stay..._ Then he feels the scorching bite of dragon fluids and that's when he learns, what the real price is.

.

"I am sorry for the wounds, dragonling."

Tugarin says, as he applies poultice to burns from dragon glands. Thanks to being taken out just outside the territory where anyone important could spy them, they didn't get too deep, little more than blisters and with all the care will heal, leaving behind marks visible only under closer inspection. Tugarin's tone is tender, silky, but always with condescending core that sends spikes through his insides.

"They were unavoidable."

Volch doesn't want to think how more severe they would be, if he stayed inside the dragon for longer. He was convinced, he miscalculated and would die in the next dragon heartbeat, or the one following it. Prayed for it.

He couldn't say, if greater suffering came from searing liquid eating at his clothes and skin in utterly tight darkness, or frenetic struggle of Zilant wounded by Ilja’s sword, which engulfed his body and mind both. He couldn’t break the spontaneous connection and felt him bleeding, felt him breaking under Tugarin's commands and too great a strain after too long imprisonment, his betrayed hunger and stoked malevolence, he felt his panicked heartbeat losing its pace and he felt his death. Even after being taken out and held in strong arms. He felt Zilant’s self as his own.

"I can see something within you died there. I felt it too."

No, Tugarin felt mere echo, little more than acknowledgement. Too high in his ivory tower. Volch was the one taken into the black dragon and taking him in too, to drown and dissolve and resurface again through distillation. Something the other man will never understand and it is the first step in overcoming him.

"Think of this as rebirth, dragonling."

He leans into his embrace with a quiet whimper. _Yes, a rebirth._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise there won't be so many notes in next chapters.
> 
> There might be some characterization dissonance. Koščej after two months of his second and worse subjugation, of absolute existential bottom, all sorts of torment and loss of faith and support responds with “Never again, I’ll sooner die than bow” and he does, it is him against the world where he can see now only prey and predators and when he cannot come on the top he goads his nemesis into final strike just to be able to strike too and have last laugh.  
> Volch on the other hand… I don’t know. I don’t know what Volch from the books would do given chance to negotiate. What I do know is, I thought that making his attachment to his magical power prior fall more pronounced could help me in creating desired circumstances – he snatches a chance to choose and scheme and there is quite a trip ahead.  
> Now… Am I rewarding such trait? This is not meant to be improvement to Volch’s character (esp. when its more extreme version was Koščej’s undoing). Is it looking like improvement of life strategy? I cannot say that more power hungry people are as a rule more functional or happier or an improvement to the world. I swear, at the beginning there was only excited curiosity at “ok, but imagine those two dragon mages teaming up with a goal of outsmarting the other, kinda like Tugarin offered Koščej, kinda more corrupt storyline” and I find myself contemplating this sort of implications.  
> As it happens, it is also going to be a storyline, where he doesn’t fall as low (well, he shouldn’t at least). So I guess the take away I could stand behind is “more trauma can turn even better person into worse than less trauma slightly less pure one”. Don’t push people to breaking points, folks, it will bite in the ass you (as it did Tugarin in the books), the victim and everyone in the vicinity too. It is just not worth it. Also, power of friendship, damnit. Really, that’s what leads to triumph here and getting the scale might be not a part of the triumph actually, but we’re getting a bit spoilery here.
> 
> Canon Koščej hissing in the background – “You just got lucky, you naïve rat…”  
> Apprentice Volch – “And I am sorry you didn’t.”  
> Canon Koščej – “Fuck your “sorry”!”  
> Canon Volch – “What have I ever done to deserve either of you?”


	2. Implications

**_C_** _ome._

He flinches at the sudden touch of intruding mind, at the lack of barrier and cover. The recuperating spell he’s been weaving falls apart with faint whisper of crumbling threads.

_I need you in the yard._

“In a moment.”

He answers knowing it will be heard and feeling discomfort he doesn’t know what do about. Tugarin withdraws and Volch gets up, stretches his stiff limbs and walks out of hallowed cave atop the hill at the edge of settlement. The distance might be inconvenient, but the place filled with old rock idols and aged religious paintings is clean, sheltered and brimming with power that quickens healing of his burns. The skin is still itchy and tight, but he is no longer thirsty, dizzy and cold despite searing pain as he felt in the first days that they spent near Zilant’s corpse. In fact cool night breeze sooths him now and with eyes closed and head tilted back he breathes a sigh of relief. Then he looks ahead.

Chors has unveiled stars and now is guiding her pale crescent across skies to guard the world with their light in sun’s absence. Volch doesn’t need it. Thanks to the spells in his blood he can see even in the deepest shadow. But he likes her gentle light anyway. It makes him feel in his element, reminds of things dear and gives the surrounding scenery less resplendent but all the more intriguing beauty. Calming and teasing both, coolly dripping from spiky branches of firs and spruces onto shorter leafy groove and wooden shingle roofs dotting Kokshaga settlement.

His gaze travels to the house dominating it - a massive elevated dwelling of Cheremis chieftain. Area in front of it is cleared but for a weathered boulder – kumir in its centre. According to legends a soul of ancient hero remains within to be called on. It is late, but nearby streets are busy, filling with onlookers, wild jittery glow of torches, excited voices and rhythmic beat approaching from the river gate. Warriors. Raiders. Whatever fleeting good feelings he had dissipate and with frown he starts walking down.

Volch wasn’t surprised, when it turned out it was Cheremis hospitality that brought Tugarin into these endless woods north of Ityl. After all, men who yearly delivered victims for black dragon and defended Zilantaw from Kievan ambush were from Suchodol – one of the holds subservient to Kokshaga. That their current ruler Vargan, a man eager for conquest but far from beloved, got into power thanks to few murders and Tugarin and now owed him allegiance, explained a lot.

But it made things a little bit… Problematic.

Bolghar has now become a part of Kievan realm and Cheremisi had long and colourful history of enmity with Bulgarians. It was surpassed only by endless squabbles of Bolghar and Suwar, which split away and allied with nearby tribes after Bolghar accepted Allah and tried to spread the faith farther. It was one of the more often repeated bits they came across while gathering intel about their opponents before embarking on the eastern campaign. Suwar city now conquered by joint forces of Bulgarians and Kievans was a wedge driven further. It would be bad to be recognized for a Kievan Prince’s former right hand by them and even worse if it got out thanks to that. _Traitor, traitor, traitor…_

And it doesn’t sit with him very well either. To simply watch their activities. It is not just ordinary plunders. Something is afoot, he has sensed that much even from his wearied isolation. Something big, probably an attack, just of what sort… Tugarin told Vargan they were to be their guests until they’d prepare for a journey north, but the longer they are here, the more chance that Volch gets entangled in the dealings of these people. Short stay turning into shadow rule wouldn’t be beyond Tugarin at all. Pale in comparison to control of ancient realm and its great capital, but better than nothing. A stepping stone for more. Volch understands desire for authority, possession and advancement quite well.

It is all in all worryingly compromising.

Can he maintain neutrality and secrecy? How uninvolved? Can he swallow his need to act on behalf of Kiev, stay indifferent while he immerses himself in the study and search for draconic magic? So that later he shall have power to make up for it all? The more he delves into it, the sooner they will achieve the objective and the sooner he can be done with this all. The vague “done” makes shivers run down his spine. Future is uncertain, privacy non-existent, his hands empty, until then he must hide in the background and go with the flow. Something both Volch and Tugarin count on.

He reaches the crowd and shoves all those thoughts deep down, instead focuses on the unfurling event. He doesn’t need to search for a lean white-haired figure. Faint silver melody streaming from the sceptre he wields and mixing with choking blackish smoky essence of the mage tells Volch exactly. He could get to him without a problem even blind and deaf.

“Master.”

He murmurs trying to ignore the unease that comes with the ambiguous address. He stations himself behind his left shoulder, in the shadow away from the glow of sceptre Tugarin holds in his right hand. When he looks at the luminescent dragon shard, its brightness highlighted by dark metal shaped as claws of a dragon paw, he can make out outline of the jagged pointy addition that used to be his own piece of Zirnytra’s scale, but the place where it is attached to Tugarin’s piece bears no marks of breaking, regrown seamlessly, restored a step closer to perfection.

Its vibrations too took on new, richer quality, whispering secrets that couldn’t be heard before, overflowing with might not felt before, giving surroundings clarity that made world as perceived when he had access only to one shard seem dull and distorted by mist. Two sceptres, even if working in tandem, couldn’t measure up to actual unity. For that, he thinks, he is willing to apprentice even under infamous Suwarian warlock.

“They’ve returned from Udmurt lands sooner than expected.”

He tears his gaze away from the scale and focuses on approaching troops. Men with crow feathers and talons strapped into their dark hair or round necks wear mere leather and bone for protection, carry primitive low-range bows, arrowheads made of rocks and bones, wooden shields and clubs, spears and axes with blades of visibly shoddy brittle iron and outdated bronze. Nothing comparable with outstanding steel lamellar and mail armour and helmets of Svjatoslav’s družina and Varangians.

It has still enabled them to overrun some poor souls - previous owners of cattle, sacks of food, metal-works and fabrics hanging from their horses and backs and… Greatoak, is that southern wine on that cart? Volch has seen their cousins from Suchodol fighting and can imagine the ferocious onslaught. Now, if there is something comparable with men Volch knew back home, it is wild rowdy joy with which they jeer, howl and flaunt themselves and their loot. Shaky fire of torches makes their expressions even more wolfish.

“But apparently not to flee from failure.”

Volch remarks. Tugarin sneers, leathery skin taut and black eyes cold despite reflection of flames.

“I wouldn’t waste my time with them if that was the case.”

_Or with anyone._

A tall wiry man marked by an actual steel sword, generally better, more elaborate gear, haughty fierce bearing and nothing good looking out his eyes emerges from the pack, people moving out of his way with sudden timidity. When Cheremis chieftain jumps off his horse near kumir, he motions for nearby shamans to come. But it is Tugarin who steps forward sooner, clang of steel tip hitting ground louder than is natural and striding as if he owned the place and the ruler waited for his sanction.

“Welcome back, Vargan.”

There is flicker of ire in the chieftain’s face, but it drowns in uncertainty immediately after. _Yes, we all are scared of him._

“Good to see you, great Tugarin.”

“Your arrival with such bountiful cargo exceeds expectations.”

“We happened upon small merchant group on a road to Kamaevo and ravaged both.”

_That would explain the early arrival._ Kamaevo was closer and well used road there came handy too. White haired mage frowns slightly and previous show of toothy joviality gives way to something cold in his eyes. A barely veiled reprimand, shift in tension that might or might not be sensed by people in the crowd.

“That’s a Bulgarian settlement, right under protection of Kazan. The plan was to hit upon Udmurts.”

Chieftain shrugs, one corner of his mouth smugly turning upward.

“I decided to leave those to Permans. Put their resentment of their Bolghar’s ass kissing cousins to some use. It will let them feel self-possessed while they get the task done for us and in the meantime we can focus on sweeter treat.”

_Ah, so that’s how you try to reclaim your feeling of independence._ It certainly serves Tugarin’s purposes more poorly than Permans do Vargan. Drakovič responds a bit stiffly.

“How inventive… But what about Bulgarian response?”

“What about it? They are too busy with way bigger problems. They won’t even notice few razed villages and caravans. This is the best time to strike and leech of them the very resources for preparation for great spring conquest.”

Volch perks up. _So that’s the timing._

“I can see you’ve put quite a thought in this. Very well. We shall celebrate your victory and discuss further ventures in your dwelling.”

Not a suggestion, not even bothering with polite questioning formulation at the end, just straight up order. And the most amazing part is Vargan is letting him take the initiative like that. Hapless or lulled, it matters not. Soon enough they are heading to the stone steps and opening bronze-covered wings of door. Tugarin mutters complains all the way there.

“I told him we need to lie low, if we want to catch them surprised and snatch the realm out of their hands when Ahmed and Svjatoslav will be engaged south fighting Khazars. And as they weaken each other, Ityl will ripen for overtaking. Show the teeth too soon and they’ll tear them out to have free hands come next year. But did he listen? No, he can’t see two steps ahead and couldn’t read an opponent right to save his life...”

Volch’s heart beats faster. That’s quite devious plan. And so soon, too soon for him. He finds himself hoping Vargan’s opportunism will indeed cancel the whole endeavour as Tugarin, rightly, worries. But then again, it might cancel other things too…

“I must try different approach. I’ll have you talk to him.”

That cuts Volch’s thoughts short. _What?_ He looks at Drakovič questioningly.

“If he doesn’t want to heed warnings of my master, why would he consider mine?”

Tugarin smiles, a thin discoloured thing like sharpened bone, turns to him and clasps his shoulder, making him shudder. They stop walking. Few people turn their heads.

“Because you will explain to him that you were Svjatoslav’s lieutenant, leader of his personal guard.”

Volch stands still, but his fists clench, he has to press them closer to his body. _You cannot resist, can you? You just have to brag that your humbly subservient companion is actually subdued Slavutich legend Vseslajevič._ Well, it is undeniable it will rise Tugarin’s credit in Vargan’s eyes and give more weight to those advices. And make Volch look worse than anonymous acolyte he acted so far. He swallows his ire.

“And then you will explain what he plans, how he thinks and how he employs his forces.”

That makes him frown and he tries to move away from the other man’s touch, but finds the bend of his palm firmer and stops. It was one thing to leave his old life behind and join Tugarin on a lonely quest for a magical artefact to prevent him from burning Svjatoslav’s army to cinders. It was entirely another actively aiding people who were plundering northern borders of new Kievan territory and preparing a large scale campaign right into its heart. He did this to save himself and družina both. And now he is to backstab them, become their adversary? The idea of laying bare intricacies of how they work, or, gods forbid, facing his brothers in a fight is revolting. He cares for them, misses them. He has spent years pouring all his energy into maintenance and growth of Kiev, it is practically his life’s work. He isn’t inclined to detriment it in any way.

“That’s not what I came here for. You promised me Zyrnitra’s scale and this has nothing to do with it.”

“I never said that was all to it. Dragon scale is means to an end. And I have such plans with it…”

With everything turning upside down and Volch being half insensible during his recovery, it was only now that he was becoming aware of some of the consequences of his decision. It wasn’t them, was it? Who wanted to conquer the unguarded lands with Tugarin’s help. It was Tugarin, who must have planted the idea, so that he could fulfil his summer plans of seizing control over Ityl with theirs. And Volch as his apprentice…

“If you want dragon magic, you will follow me in this. Or not at all and forget your every hope and my favour. I’d regret withdrawing it, but I can assure you, you’d regret it way, way more.”

Cheremisi are his allies, not Volch’s, he’d be surrounded by enemies.

“It is all or nothing, dragonling.”

Hold tightens, fingers painfully pressing against still healing skin and nails digging right into it.

“Anything more to say?”

“No.”

“Good.”

He let’s go of Volch and resumes walking.

“Once we get this dealt with, we can move to the subject of sigils. I thought about your suggestion to add Suwarian symbols to your runes and Varangian signs that you combine and I think it is worth exploring.”

Volch follows behind silently, thoughts dark like chasm within ruined Zilantaw.

_The trick I pulled already served its purpose. Tugarin didn’t destroy the army. And now, that Zilant’s dead, he cannot anymore. That was the best reason to submit and it is over. If I fled and returned to Kievan host, spun a tale of escaping captivity and brought news about the threat…_ He closes his eyes and sees them. Their surprised and relieved faces and shouts, hands roughly clasping to make sure he’s real. He would congratulate Ilja on causing demise of dragon threat and that troubled youth would light up, whoever remained from his Thirty would triumphantly yell “Goryn”, Mikula crush him in a bear hug, Jegor forget to scowl, Aljoša start laughing and Svjatoslav would be so damn impressed and Volch would see weight falling off his shoulders - a brightly coloured mirage, vivid and distant both. That life seems eons away and unreal and hunger for it all the more raw. _By Goryn and Zirnitra both, yes…_

_But you know, what that would mean..._ Night air turns unpleasantly chilly. _I’d leave behind Zirnytra’s scale._ The two pieces were joined now, which meant that not only was Tugarin more powerful, Volch’s power wasn’t entirely his own anymore. Though they shared the increased magic, it was Tugarin who wielded and rigorously guarded the steel sceptre which allowed him to control flow of its power.

Losing access to it, especially after he took such pains to keep it… He shudders. Draconic magic isn’t his only worth, but definitely the greatest. He can’t quite imagine living without it, without its silver melody, sharpness with which the world unravels in front of him, force and speed dancing on the fingertips and keeping tiredness at bay if needed. And the knowledge, from places he might have not even heard off, gathered for longer than ordinary man’s lifespan. _I thought about your suggestion to add Suwarian symbols to your runes and Varangian signs that you combine…_ He… Doesn’t want to give it up just for a chance of return.

_See? Still choosing Tugarin’s offer over sharing their fate. Is that not a reason to leave them behind truly? Hesitation kills. And one could very well say, you did get even with Kiev and there is no more obligation between you and them. The very staging of your death is a line drawn, a bridge burnt._ He pauses, taken aback by that aloof thought. _No! Not like that. I… I still act on their behalf too!_ The more he thinks about it… Definitely. Even strategically.

Tugarin probably wouldn’t take his departure very well. The vague notion of regret seems even more ominous now. Should he chase after him, Volch would be bringing not only news but the very danger to their door. And the last time Tugarin and Kievans met, it ended in death of almost everyone Volch brought with himself, something they might actually remember less than kindly. The previous mirage darkens. Even if they accepted him, they wouldn’t thank him once the other shoe would drop. That is, if he managed to reach them at all. And he wouldn’t put it past Drakovič to decide after hunting him down, that the reason for his fleeing must be eliminated.

Really, all their chances are better, if he stays here, watches over the threat closely and once the time comes confronts it in safe distance from them. He cannot run away like some cowardly homesick weakling of a child. That would be risky and an abandonment of a mission and waste of an unparalleled opportunity. He won’t get an option like this second time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the books we don’t see Tugarin nor Volch use symbols, it is all spell casting and sceptre waving, but I want it here and I want Volch being inventive and combining letters of various cultures and in fact I think it would be his father who started with the idea when he served at Rurik court.  
> Also regarding our lovely serpent, Zialnt is connected to Kazan and Červenák acknowledges that too, but for the purposes of the story he moved the creature's home from Kazan to Suwar, Kazan in the book series being just a border fortress of Bolghar, so...


	3. What Runes Capture

Vargan listened.

He scowled sceptically and his eyes gleamed with interest when told this was to stay private. It might look craven, hiding like this instead of being in the open in a bold and firm declaration of one’s allegiance, but Volch decides, that for a temporary arrangement like this and it is only temporary damnit, he will forego this sliver of respect for the sake of secrecy. The less people know, the better.

Vargan’s eyebrows jumped nearly to his hairline, when told Volch’s name. His eyes ran him over and, as expected, there was scornful judgment in his stare.

“Betraying your own people?”

“They are not my people. Never were. Those burned and fell under their swords years ago.”

He left out that later there was proper manner of taxation set to prevent the same disaster from repeating, some rebuilding done in Drevlyan lands and number of Drevlyan people slowly got to some of the most prominent positions within the court and if it wasn’t a conscious restitution it was as good as if it were. That when he after such a time returned there due to trouble with brigands, he was glad to see new life there, but felt he no longer belonged, more Kievan (which wasn’t the same as Polyan, not anymore), Varangian-Kievan than Drevlyan, more dragon after his father than Drevlyan after his mother. That nearly half of his goryniči, prince’s personal guard, the highest rank, burnt and fallen under swords because of Tugarin, were his kinsmen, brought to Kiev as children and reforged with him.

“Magic ties exceed whatever pay there was in serving Ruriks.”

But there was more, so much more…

Vargan glanced at the sceptre in Tugarin’s hand briefly and then looked back at Volch and nodded and judged former slave in front of him still, though a bit differently. But most of all he listened, curious and a bit disappointed and he agreed to curb his appetite a little and then questioned him for details, many details.

Volch wants to throw up afterwards.

“Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

Nausea tangles into entirely different knot in his stomach, a sort of scorching livid coil that wants to hiss and strike and power tugs at his fingers eagerly. Steel sceptre brightens in response and he can feel its low hum even in his bones. Tense fingers clench and his glower slides off older warlock who is leisurely tapping his digits on the smooth surface of the magic staff, slides off slightly upturned corners of his mouth and aloof eyes. Volch lifts his chin and summons similar calm.

“True, quite easy to persuade that one. It downright looks like anyone could manage it.”

Tugarin’s eyes narrow slightly. _Yes, that was a veiled insult to your previous efforts._

“Now, I believe you said something about runic study.”

White haired man nods slowly.

“So I did.”

Then he turns sharply on his heel.

“Come.”

They head to the utmost back of the building, where wooden construction meets rock of elevation against which chieftain’s house is pressed. It is quiet here and the room is bare save for single torch next to the entrance into underground. Stonework is rough, just a hole plunging into depths of earth, steep stairs swallowed by pitch-black darkness. Something about the sight makes his blood run cold, it is like unnerving echo, like breeze of blade passing inches from one’s skin. Agitating and yet drawing in. He tears his gaze away with reluctance. Drakovič notices.

“It leads to cave system beneath Kokshaaga. And to prison cells.”

He nods. Tugarin produces two pieces of charcoal. He tosses one to Volch a starts to write on the wall with the other.

“These are vowels. These consonants. There aren’t signs indicating whole words. For magical purpose they have to be arranged into transcription of actual spells.”

He watches 38 symbols take form on the wall. Where those he knows consist of stark straight lines sometimes embellished by an arc branching mostly to the right, these eastern letters are sometimes made of curves and circles and seem to be facing into both directions or none in particular just as often.

“Only in your language?”

“I haven’t tried others.”

Somehow Volch isn’t surprised. There is something about orderly purity, being set in good old ways and refiningrefining neatly sorted out crafts in Tugarin. While he is a knot of different influences and half-blind improvisation, too tangled to be unwound by anything but a decisive slash of a sword.

“Words are separated from each other by colon. They read from right to left.”

Volch lifts his hand to twiddle ends of his moustache, as he tends to when rummaging over something, only to be reminded it is gone. Zilant’s juices burnt both his skin and hair. They shorn away what remained, which reminded him disconcertingly of the time, when he became captive. But it was practical, so he bore it silently. He has no idea if they are ever going to grow back. Displeased, he drops the hand.

“This one and these three are quite similar to ones used along banks of Slavutich.”

He starts scribbling next to Tugarin’s table of letters, in one column _črty_ and in the other Varangian runes.

“These two are mirror-like. Mine is called lögr – sea, good in inscriptions for marine protection or when tracing origins and also for dealing with blood.”

It took some creativity and cryptic way of thinking to look past the letter and call on associations that could be bound together for a specific request, or to decipher someone else’s work.

“And it stands for l.”

“Stands for l as well.”

Volch points to the other.

“These are identical. Eihaz – yew tree, older one, fell out of fashion, it reads æ.”

“Similar. Hmm…”

“This one is mir – world, pronounced m. Yours?”

Tugarin shakes his head.

“Ič, or iči. Sometimes č. It is also a writing system, there are letters which have functions depending on type of word or signs surrounding them.”

He steeples his fingers together.

“Any relation?”

“It is not impossible, though I wouldn’t put my hand into fire for this. This is not merely Suwarian. With some alterations across time and area it is shared by majority of nomadic tribes from steppes and deserts and they have always travelled far. Khazars relied on it too before adopting Jewish and Greek teachings. These symbols have been in use in the whole river basin of Ityl and even east of Ural and Khvalis sea. They are more than two centuries old. And before that…”

Tugarin pauses. His hand hovers over wall hesitantly and his gaze is distant.

“Before that we had our own glyphs.”

It is different “we”. Charcoal resumes its movement a little away from eastern signs. Movement swift, but eager and excited, rather than careless as before. Before Volch’s eyes emerges something that is more pictures than letters, all spirals and sharp spikes, rows of protrusions and something in his insides stirs. They can be described only as serpentine. Not belonging to any nation that would proudly spread them to all four corners of the world. A secret hoarded by Zirnytra’s heirs. A little too well.

“They feel familiar, but I cannot tell, what they mean. I am seeing them for the first time.”

Low chuckle that makes him frown.

“Thought as much. Nothing to be handled by a child and those not properly initiated.”

His frown deepens.

“Why haven’t I found them in the scale?”

It remembers everything, every spell it was used for, every curse and volatile energy it consumed. Sure, some were more difficult to fish out and when it came to newly joined pieces, both he and Tugarin had yet to untangle all it offered now, but this…

“They are not part of it. Dragons had no need for writing. It were our ancestors who invented them. And so they must be taught. There is complexity to them, very precarious powers and processes they channel. They won’t do anything now, but should they be drawn with blood and awakened by something draconic, they could empower dying or put to deathlike sleep or kill and uncontrolled eat you alive or even bring this place down and make it haunted for years.”

Volch swallows.

“Ok. So let’s see if this all can also work together.”

.

Summer is ripening along with blackberries and trout travelling up the Red river to brave fishers and mate. His skin heals as predicted, but for discoloration. Not exactly chalk white, but still rather pale and what more - somewhat sensitive. Which is shame, he liked basking in sunlight for hours on end.

Schedule is irregular, but he’s used to that. They don’t interact with locals very often, though Volch is always ready to treat some wound or illness and Tugarin never misses an opportunity to intrude on Cheremis shamans. Drakovič looks down on their simpler craft, but wants to learn details about their practises all the same and make himself more important by taking over their dealings. Volch is mostly to trail behind and do menial tasks. When Tugarin separates his spirit from his body to travel astrally, Volch gets always brushed off to just guard his sleep (not that there is against whom). He suspects the sole purpose is to keep him in place, which is little underwhelming, but at least rune work is honest deal.

He is getting hang of the Ityl writing and how it fits with his own to make protective and deadly barriers, traps, blessings, enhancers, addressing of sacrifice; Cheremis dialect (Varangian language in its basics is widespread and useful in deal-making with vast array of nations thanks to raiders’ pervasiveness and industriousness, but it is not the same as grasping what certain group of people talk like among themselves) and dragon characters.

They aren’t even sacred words of power like certain symbols are, but tales and concepts so vast and detailed, one could probably fill whole of a book in an attempt to thoroughly describe and explain them. To write one is to summon a spirit larger than human soul, or maybe not even a single spirit, but a type of spirits or some principle according to which the world works with all sorts of quirks to pick from and fail to spot.

To write two next to each other is to try and negotiate their alliance rather than disastrous clash and when they are joined in one way or another they become a different creature altogether, one that writer might not even have foreseen. No wonder it needs nudging by actual magical essence, one has to tell through it which exactly from the myriad forms and reactions he wants to coax, form it with his very mind and will and persuade the character in question to follow through. They like to break free and do whatever they want until they burn out, gate closed. Volch has never imagined arguing with a bedamned picture, but here he is.

“The more potent blood, the stronger effect. We start with crushed invertebrates and then we can move to fish. Human could misfire spectacularly at this point.”

“What about caster’s own?”

“Easier to master, but most likely to affect him along with target.”

“Actual dragon blood?”

Tugarin smiles wide and menacing and… Yes, pleased.

“Whirlwind and earthquake and wildfire and flood.”

“Mixture?”

“Depending on what you mix. Certain combinations were tried, others not yet. For some reason human and raven cancel each other out, it kills the whole spell, sure way to back out.”

There is a drawing representing each son of legendary Zirnytra. Tugarin says the symbol and its properties actually change when something significant happens to the one they stand for.

“This outer crescent here?”

He points out as he draws forked symbol of Goryn on a smoothed limestone atop elevation above chieftain’s house. Nothing, but chaffinches and sparrows hidden in few hazel shrubs to interfere up here.

“It wasn’t a part of the glyph a century ago. I saw it transform and knew…”

Volch’s fists clench. The accident. It got out of control and entrance into caverns of the highest mountain where new settlement was rising, men on drakkars landing, disappeared under collapsing rock imprisoning the three headed dragon inside. It was almost the end. When father told him the story he had a nightmare that night, of an aching wrongly regrown limb, of creaky pressure that seemed to be breaking under its own weight about to smother him completely any moment, of endless darkness and silence and closed-up walls, gnawing in insides, frantic scrambling in head.

Lairs felt good but entrapment was different thing and he woke up screaming and crying and mother was cross with Vseslajev for days to come, not that the wielder of malachite sceptre cared. And Volch preferred knowing to not knowing. All went as expected, except the part where Volch was supposed to start developing a divinatory ability. Even now, as an adult man, he gets barely any nagging feeling now and then. It isn’t his affinity.

Line of his thoughts is broken as Tugarin, who’s been staring at the symbol thoughtfully, moves abruptly and quickly scribbles a different glyph a little farther. While he is drawing a vertical line, a piece of wood he uses to apply smashed and dissolved remains of bugs suddenly snaps and the line veers off and mage’s lips press into nearly invisible tense line.

He tips the sign with his sceptre, a single tone eluded in short blink of light and the symbol almost blackens, edges crimson and there is a whiff of scorching and choking aggression in the air and for a moment Volch is back inside Zilant and he grips a fang hanging on his hip to ground himself. He might have called him a pure evil before, but when all was done he somehow found himself weeping both for what happened and for the killed drake (it was one thing, for a moment they were…) and then wrenched out one tooth with his own hurting fingers as a keepsake before Cheremis arrived to their camp.

Then Zilant’s glyph flickers and pales, just a quiet shimmer, darkly ashen, distant and still. Weak. Dead. Tugarin stands up and turns away, stiff but for breeze blowing into his pale hair and robe and grip on the sceptre is white-knuckled. There is shroud around the man, but something of upset and disappointment bleeds through.

_You miss him, don’t you?_

“Awake your symbol.”

Drakovič orders, still facing away from Volch and their drawing space. Volch considers unfastening the tooth, but then changes his mind, considering its origin, and just presses his finger atop the sigil to nudge it with power and request to introduce itself. It turns green and though its light isn’t very strong, it is steady and there is smell of crispy wind atop mountain peak, wood, wet rock, sense of mischief and writhing swarm, promise of power to be released. Smile tugs at corners of his mouth. He might love and revere Zirnytra more, but Goryn is his dragon and the presence feels familiar and good.

Thin fingers tap the dark metal.

“I have been actually always curious, how you do it.”

“Do what?”

Warlock finally returns, curiosity like needlepoints gleaming in the black orbs. Whatever was there before is now tucked away.

“Keep Goryn alive like that.”

It actually can be traced in Volch’s piece of the scale, but Drakovič wouldn’t know what to look for. They get each other’s spells more quickly when they also explain them to each other. Or perform them on one another.

“It wasn’t feasible to feed him actual living people what with the manner of mountainside collapse and... Overall situation. Goryniči remained travellers as before.”

Something required when the dragon in question liked to fly wide and far and procreate with other serpentine creatures and populate whole Slavutich river basin and some more distant areas with zmeys. But those were gone by now.

“They put a preserving enchantment upon his prison combined with winter-like deep sleep and then created the ritual to actually send his way energy when they killed and burned their victims. It was rather diluted compared to literaly eating someone and the spell itself consumed some of the power harvested.”

And the dragon was large. They managed with executions, volunteers, groomed orphans and also kidnapping. Scary tales Ilja mentioned his mother had told him were true.

“But it worked.”

“And after suppression of Drevlyan uprising? I heard the cult pretty much died out.”

That was… Unpleasant. He didn’t foresee the development at all. Maybe he should have, considering that after whole entrapment three masters (like three heads of Goryn) led by the one who wielded the malachite sceptre shrunk to a single person and the lifespan shortened a bit too. Some years in the nightmare returned, recurring more and more often and there was growing sense of something lacking.

He sought out old torn down and forgotten barren sites from the times when goryniči did command respect in surroundings of Kiev. He spent nights there brooding over what to do. At the memory he instinctively rubs the array of faint cut marks on his forearm (he needed his palm in working condition and to not attract attention). He could have turned his back on it completely. One third of Zirnytra’s scale and its magic would remain his regardless of what would happen to her child. But he didn’t want to.

“I adapted it further.”

He hears the note of self-satisfaction in his voice. He made it on his own, practically cobbled it on the knee. And it was cheating really and he still made sure to avoid collateral as much as possible and he was pulling it off and no one else knew. Control in that…

“How?”

Demanding tone of his voice is accompanied by probing mental presence, like searching fingers, tendril of smoke pouring inside. It is not just stalking and asking for attention from the first days, when they started to explore telepathic possibilities of two connected shards. Now Drakovič is trying to get in and be felt. When Volch tries to deflect, he gets stung in reprimand.

_Tell me!_

He bites his lip staring at the malachite glowing symbol intently. There is something about keeping it his secret… But then he gives up on reluctance, meets Tugarin’s eyes and answers. It is his to say aloud, not to have it dragged out of his brain by the other party.

“Procedure matters too of course, but the essential part is address. There are regular prayers, renewal of consecration on instruments and then there is a spell with which I open the rite.”

He leans forward and wraps his hand around cold black handle of steel sceptre to summon the charm in question. He notices how Tugarin twitches, motion quickly supressed. He doesn’t let go of the staff.

“I…”

Volch wets his lips and gets on with it.

“Sacrifice to him when I fight and kill on a battlefield. Those men would die anyway, so why not put it to use and dedicate them to Goryn?”

_There are other ways than abducting youths and showing them kicking and screaming into a pit. I’d too prefer this death over being a helpless captive led to slaughter like cattle._

Tugarin’s eyebrows rise a bit and that’s a sight Volch could get used to.

“Resourceful.”

He moves the sceptre into his other hand and sits back down, disentangling the steel rod from Volch’s fingers in the process.

“It is also less concentrated though. That surely showed.”

He finishes with eyes narrowed. Volch rubs his neck.

“True. So I spread out the task a bit.”

“Your new goryniči…”

“Yes. Thirty men manage more than one. I convinced Svjatoslav that his personal guard, elite fighters and top enforcers to be sent to deal with all kinds of trouble would benefit from adopting a distinct and fearsome deity that Goryn was. It all looked symbolic, nothing to suspect. Something like your baghaturs guarding Zilantaw alongside Cheremis, but with… More significant hidden purpose.”

“You all had the insignia, dragon paintings on the shields, weapons can be blessed…”

“And we shouted his name every time we rode to battle. It cumulated. Goryn continued breathing and power in his heartbeat strengthened us back.”

“It wasn’t much.”

Declares Tugarin at last.

“It was enough.”

Volch insists in harder tone and gets smirk in response. And then…

_No, you lost to me without landing a blow, dragonling._

Before he can react to that, there are hurried footsteps and faint tinkle behind. They turn in the direction and see a short curvy girl run up the slope to them, wide hips swaying, plentiful chest bouncing, long ebony hair flowing behind her, barely bound by her headband with silver spirals, fright and urgency mingling in her large dark eyes. Something about her reminds him of swallows, small and soft if not willowy, just needs to spread those wings... _Išora._ Volch recalls her name. _Vargan’s bride in theory and a hostage to keep Permans docile in practise._

She was there when Volch revealed himself to Vargan. It was to stay private and it did, for she didn’t count. Standing in the corner and trying to make herself invisible while she held a pitcher with that newly acquired southern wine, ready to fill Vargan’s goblet and bear his ire and dismissal, treated not like a ruler’s wife, but a convict. She didn’t count in anyone’s eyes, but her eyes burned Volch when he mentioned his enslavement.

She bows hastily, casts one timid glance at sour looking Tugarin and promptly drops her eyes to the ground.

“I’m sorry to disturb you. But chieftain sent me to tell you he… Needs you to join a council right now. I am… I am to return with you. Quickly.”

She hunches a bit. Volch hurries to encourage her.

“Thanks for telling us.”

Tugarin hasn’t moved yet, just watches as Perman princess squirms and so Volch refrains from destroying the sigils and packing their things. Last time he did that it didn’t end well.

“What is so important, it won’t bear waiting?”

The warlock asks at last.

“A messenger came. There’s been an uprising.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, long notes again… Subject of runes is a bit of thin ice. 
> 
> Then there is Old Turkic script and Sabirs who populated Volga-Bulgaria were Turkic so I supplant Tugarin with Orkhon-Yeniyey script. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Old_Turkic_script  
> We have attested Germanic runes and poetry about Odin, Sigurd etc. mentions use of runes for magic. For Varangians of middle-ages it would be Younger Futhark writing system, but Elder could be found and recognized here and there. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Younger_Futhark  
> Slavs are solid head-scratcher in that regard. There were forgeries like chaotically written Veles book. There were archeological findings on which bits of Cyrillic, Varangian or other writings are accompanied by undeciphered signs or objects with inscriptions purely in these undeciphered signs. There were witness records of written dealings that tend to be a bit vague and ambivalent on identity of people doing the writing or alphabet in use by them. And when Thesalonike brothers Cyril and Methodius went to Great Moravia, they asked for alphabet which they could use for translation of religious texts, only to be told by the emperor, he knows of no such thing used by people of Great Moravia, so maybe it was forgotten in that area, or was suitable only for some things (like rituals) and not complex written text – grammar and everything, or something. There is also hypothesis that tribe of Severians might have had signs that evolved from Turkic alphabet. It is messy subject. https://ru.wikipedia.org/wiki/%D0%94%D0%BE%D1%85%D1%80%D0%B8%D1%81%D1%82%D0%B8%D0%B0%D0%BD%D1%81%D0%BA%D0%B0%D1%8F_%D0%BF%D0%B8%D1%81%D1%8C%D0%BC%D0%B5%D0%BD%D0%BD%D0%BE%D1%81%D1%82%D1%8C_%D1%83_%D1%81%D0%BB%D0%B0%D0%B2%D1%8F%D0%BD (google can translate it into English just fine, I tried it)  
> Nevertheless Červenák has Ilya recognize “črty” (term for Slavic symbols), that are referred to as magical, on his gods-given sword as saying “gnev” – anger, so like yes, I am writing this with mysterious Slavic runes in some use. I for my part cheated with random set provided by google. https://sk.pinterest.com/pin/284430532686322441/  
> And fantastical inklings of my soul say, that our ancient dragon mages deserve some obscure symbols predating even that, thus I improvised. 
> 
> I improvised also with dragon past – book series tells us only that Vseslajev, who served Igor/Ingvar in Kiev and then moved to Drevlyan court, was the last to demand human sacrifices and Volch and his squad don’t do bloody rituals, that Goryn is forever magically trapped in some mountain near Novgorod and that Volch’s ancestors were more powerful than him. Plenty of room to get inventive.


	4. Suppression of the uprising

Of course. Of course they get involved. It’s Vargan’s recently subjugated territory and problem, not theirs. But Tugarin is in mood to lend a helping hand not only in form of sharing his thoughts in Kokshaga war room, but personally joining this punitive strike. Maybe after years of being holed up in that tower of his, he found himself eager to travel and get into action. Or some other surprising reason. He puzzles Volch at times. And also grates on him. For being in a working partnership they end up exchanging covert and not so covert hostility quite often.

He is disturbed from his reverie by Vargan’s shout to stop. Company of fifty riders comes to halt. He gestures for Volch and Tugarin to come to him.

“Behind the next curve and down the slope are the settlements.”

Four allied villages on the banks of a small river and its tributaries. It is a remarkably yielding gold panning locality – a reason Vargan’s so insistent on controlling it.

“I want you to do scouting, before we start the attack.”

They nod. When they learnt of the revolt, Tugarin went to the hallowed cave to enter magical trance and travel there astrally, but such thing required peace and time and grounds touched by magic. For a quick check before strike it was better to use what Volch favoured – animal spies. He spreads his senses a bit more to find a suitable host. Almost immediately a single hawk catches his attention, but he assumes, Tugarin will want that one for himself. He is proven right by a sharp cry and the bird in question flying to the white-haired mage to answer it. He searches further and picks a raven. Not as sharp-eyed, but very good for scooping close. He caws at it, the sound to not be discerned from a real bird’s voice and irresistible. The feathered fiend takes off from its tree and lands on Volch’s outstretched forearm. He smirks to awed sounds behind their backs, then looks his corvid in the eye and dives in.

It is simpler than human mind - few objectives, straightforward notions, little conflict, but lots of sharp writhing edges and sparkling points ready to spring away from grabby presence, prone to getting too intrigued too, so curious and cunning.

_Let me in…_

Bird yields to firm touch of dragon magic and Volch finds himself looking at his own face with eyes rolled up. Such trips are a bit contagious and afterwards he always feels a bit of urge to peck or flap his arms. But the joy of flying… He commands the muscles to move, delighting in steep movement upwards and lightness of this airy body. Tugarin’s bird is already up there, so much more might in those wings, and circling lazily above twisting river valley. It mellows out and widens down the stream, framed by soft hills and fields, but cuts rather sharply into bedrock straight to the central peak. There are even few small waterfalls.

_Which way first?_

He seeks out the other mind and tentatively brushes it with a question. It tingles. He has decided to respond to increasing telepathic contact in kind. More often trodden paths leave him exposed, easier to reach and orient in. Instead of dense unknown wilderness a clear and familiar groove. But that was happening anyway, just slower. What he needs to do is get rid of skittishness, learn jumping across the trails quickly, twisting them into labyrinth that appears reliably mapped and thorough, but always only skirts his deeper thoughts. He needs to learn Tugarin’s moves and openings and how to anticipate, feign and riposte. If he is to be breached and thumbed through, then by gods, he shall return the favour and get something out of it. Volch doesn’t see inside, but observes the response emerge on the surface, as if rising from murky depths, before it is flung his way.

_You eastern bank, I western._

The one on western side being further south. They part. Volch’s smaller bird sweeps towards a small village on a grassy meadow between two streams tricking down the mountainside. It is mostly dugouts, two or three upper huts and fences that might keep out animals, but not people. The place is perfectly still and silent. Stored food and any possible valuables likely carried away or at least hidden.

_Emptied. Yours?_

_Same._

_Holed up in the main one already then._

It gets confirmed, when they fly northwest, towards third and the largest village. It stands atop flattened elevation above rapids forming meeting point of the main stream and a nearby brook emerging from the surrounding woods. It is encircled by fresh palisade. Modest one, but with two rows where the hill smooths down to the level of surrounding cleared land between two water bodies, before it rises up again. It forms a bowl of sort, slightly tilted towards the river.

“They vacated their homes and managed to fortify the leading settlement. Breaking through might take some time.”

He distantly hears Tugarin say to Vargan in that flat voice which comes with mind turned elsewhere.

“Shit. I hoped we’d get here before they finish. How did they get it done this quick?”

“I told you they made considerable progress when I left my body the last time. They must have started the day they killed the overseers.”

Flat inflection or not, hint of exasperation doesn’t escape Volch’s notice.

_I wonder what else they might have prepared._

_Any specific idea?_

_Maybe…_

Before he can finish, they spot a trail of people with carts and animals walking towards it, previously hidden behind a curve of landscape.

“Fourth village is vacating right now. They are about to reach the main one.”

Vargan perks up.

“How far?”

“Maybe half a verst.”

“We can still catch them and use as hostages! Ride, men! Now!”

Chieftain’s shout drowns in neighing and thud of hoofbeats.

_But what about…_

_Nothing. It probably wasn’t necessary anyway. What else could they possibly come up?_

The opportunity is quite priceless, Volch has to agree. The community is close-knit, no point in trying to sneak under illusion, for so numerous strangers out of nowhere would be suspicious. Capture is their best option. He untangles his self from air-filled sinews and bones and drops back into his own body. Shaking his head once to clear it, he spurs his horse too. Cheremisi aren’t as good riders as steppe people, but Vargan and his warriors manage quite impressive speed on the uneven forest road down the valley. Raiding experience. They rush forth like a river of flesh and bloodthirst, all agility and fervour. It feels good to lose himself in it again. One rhythm, one body, multiplied might, unflinching, unstoppable.

When they bolt from beneath the green canopy almost opposite the settlement, villagers are crossing shallows of the river a little bit north - few fathoms before the steep dip of the flow and settlement in the same direction. They immediately break into run, dropping everything in their hands except children. Their fright and cries are like scent of blood. Screeching Cheremisi urge their mounts into truly mad gallop. But those gods-damn belonging and cattle in the way are a slow-down.

_Shortcut. But I can power two animals at most._

Volch is answered with a sigh.

_I’ll join in._

He and Tugarin with four more Cheremisi steer their steeds into deeper water, stronger current be damned, silver power poured into animals’ slender limbs. Carried by dragon force, barely touching land, speed and reach and sureness of dragon flight. Cold river water, hot skin and breaths and sense of leaden weight making him see black. He grits his teeth. They rush past obstacles despite pull of water and emerge near the front of escapees, ready to cut them off. Few arrows fly their way. It takes only a wave of hand to nudge them away from their targets. Stomping horses and pointed spears halt the crowd.

“Close your eyes!”

The order is laced with magic, its irresistibility giving Volch a pause. _So… Compelling._ Then steel sceptre vibrates with cruel surge and he barely manages to obey, before Zirnytra’s scale erupts with light that stabs white-hot holes into his brain even through squirmed eyelids. It’s short and ends with pained and terrified cries. When he looks again, he sees two dozen people collapsed on the grass, shaking and holding their heads. The rest turns on their heel, sprinting towards protective thickness of surrounding woods, stumbling over each other in panic. Some make it almost to the treeline, even landing few blows on the riders. But it is no use and Cheremisi surround them, running around in tighter and tighter circles, carelessly hitting adult, young and old alike. Clamour ceases, but wails continue.

When victims of the sceptre recover enough to be herded up the slope towards their kinsmen, Vargan nudges his mount forward, fancy sword brandished a raised high.

“Do you know who I am? Vargan, your chieftain! I made you crawl in the mud at my feet like lowly spineless worms you are once and I will do it again and this piss-poor fence won’t stop me! Kugurak's spirit, never defeated, gods’ equal, lives inside me and Azyren, hunter of souls, follows in my steps. And do you know what else I am?”

He points the sword towards huddled hostages.

“A man with six tens of captives that you couldn’t protect! Surrender right now, or I swear, I’ll start killing! And it was a long and hard journey, so I’ll take just as long and hard! Slicing them bit by bit and feeding to my hungry men!”

Volch looks around and shivers run down his spine. It doesn’t sound like an empty threat. And there is no Mikula and Jegor to demand mercy and honour. _If there ever were, Vargan wiped it out of them. Or them._ He looks at the heads peering from behind the palisade imploringly. _Come on, do not be as stubborn as alvar beg of Murom. I am not in a position to broker a duel._ Vargan doesn’t linger, he returns and beckons to few people to start giving the orders. _Do it, just do it, now, rather then after blood starts flowing. You'll break anyway, but it'll linger._ One warrior mires in and hauls someone up, frantic pleas ignored. He tightens his hold around reins. Killing is one thing, but this was a promise of torture and it makes something twist inside him. _Or should I try anyway?_ Volch inhales. And the gate starts opening. _Thanks gods..._ And what pours out are men gripping everything from clubs, through work tools to spears and bows. _Or?_ A man in his forties with a helmet and a long beard steps forward and those meaty arms of his hold an actual battle axe. Looks like Varangian craftsmanship. _Lucky treasure or active contact?_ He looks at the armament of the defenders again and suddenly there seems to be more steel. _Maybe bought and maybe… Helgard should be near, but is mostly emptied, so what else…_ The man points his weapon their way and shouts.

“Come and fight, rat's shit!”

For few moments there is only silence.

“They want to meet us in the open? What are they thinking?”

A large man with crimson scar across his face and shaved and tattooed sides of his head asks just what Volch’s been thinking. _Argyz, one of Vargan’s closest._

“Maybe they trust their numbers?”

Wonders aloud a woman with a long dark braid interwoven with a red string, narrowing her unusual pale eyes. She has a tattoo as well, but a bit different. Marking her as one of Cheremis war deity – Kugurak’s sacred. There are few women in Kokshaga ranking among fighters, something like shield-maidens, and Aga, nicknamed Lizard for her sneakiness and skill in climbing, is one of them.

“Or their arrows.”

She adds. _Then they are in for a nasty surprise._ _Zirnytra’s scale will repel them._

Vargan growls.

“They aren’t thinking. Upstart fools drunk on disobedience. They are like brats in a need of a punch.”

He cracks his knuckles and then he turns to them.

“Alright, the thirteen of you, stay with the captives. The rest, with me.”

Nods and murmur of assent, shifting people. Something still doesn’t feel right though. Air of anticipation is strange and he could swear he saw few men opposite them glance to their left as if awaiting something. _A trick, they sure as death planned some trick._ Volch looks at Tugarin, he is frowning too and the sceptre hums with wariness. As if sensing his stare, nah, of course sensing his stare, he turns to him too.

“I maintain the shielding, you search for the trap.”

Rather than seek a new host, he looks for the raven he has already established a link with. After he snapped out, it landed on some rooftop. He slips in and takes off.

The numbers seemed fitting, but if they did find someone helpful and those enforcements are waiting in the forest to hit their flanks…

Volch’s raven dives beneath the beeches and maples around. The forest looks a bit ravaged, but that comes with suddenly increased need for timber and digging through banks in search for nuggets and colourful crystals.

“Anything?”

The barrage of arrows comes.

“Seems…”

It is too noisy.

_Seems alri… Wait._

There is a rather small group of people holding axes and hammers crouched in underbrush, obviously with a purpose. He lands and hops a bit closer. And ropes and something like struts and precarious pile of silt and…

_Goryn’s heads…_

_What is it?_

He shoots up in the air and rushes upstream for the confirmation before he answers. Yes, there too.

_Did you gather water for dry months in Suwar?_

Instead of imagined speech he tries to send images of simple barriers he saw, before Tugarin might decide to just jump inside and look himself or something. First you breach the pond up there, then you lift the barrier in recently dug canal and bar the normal basin to redirect the flow. The needed to get us down from the slope, so they picked a fight.

_Sluices. They want to flood the battlefield. Wash us away from their gate when they retreat._

That’s clever, that’s so clever, he didn’t know they could come up with that. Then again, cascading fishing ponds and placer mining…

_If we stop…_

“Too late... Run there!”

He jolts awake as Tugarin shouts and shakes his shoulder. Screaming and howling men of Kokshaga are rushing forth to meet the daring villagers in the middle of the bowl. The sceptre must go there with them, Volch cannot be at two places at the same time, he spurs his steed in the way of a group from the back. Aga is among them, good.

“Threat in the forest! Half of you, follow me!”

They hesitate and look towards Drakovič. _Sweet Zyrnitra…_ They apparently get some sort of confirmation and start moving, before he can yell at them again. They dash to the edge and then into thick greenery. Screams and rattle of weapons follow them.

“You five! A dam forty fathoms upstream. They mustn’t break it.”

Then he points at Aga and a crooked-nosed fellow with an unruly mop of mud-brown hair. _Nurij?_

“You two with me.”

Even if they fail, the water will stay mostly in its own riverbed, unless the lower barrier gets opened. If it does, then even without that tide… It is a priority. He mutters a spell to muffle the sounds they make and they slice through the forest in opposite ways. Clamour from the nearby battlefield is pitching. When he recognizes plants and shape of ground from flight in the bird’s body, Volch lifts a hand to stop his companions. He points at places, where their foes are stationed and the barrier waiting to be opened. They nod, weapons ready and savage grins just as sharp and soundlessly start forward.

Just then a horn blows and screams of “Retreat!” rise above scrummage. _So much for sneaking..._ He springs up and throws his knife at the man on the other end of a dug canal, who has just stood up to swing his hammer at one of the struts. It is not a throwing knife, but that’s what spells are for. It finds its mark true and sure and the man with a yelp drops the hammer and falls backwards. Then Volch has to dodge a swing of a chopping axe wielding man stationed next to tense ropes and a stabbed man’s companion manages to dislodge one of supporting logs before Aga’s spear pierces him through. The whole construction shudders. Nurij and Aga leap at the trio near the pile of silt.

Volch misses his sword dearly and though he could substitute his sceptre with a spear, it is not the same. He stabs his foe just fine, right between his ribs, red bubbles at mouth as the axe slips from his fingers. But then someone else comes rushing and by the time he dislodges the blade to parry, he manages only to get the shaft in the way of a coming blow and its ordinary wood splinters. _There goes my long range._ With snarl Volch throws the ruined spear at enemy’s face and proceeds to ram him. _Let’s try close one._

Mud and pebbles spray up together with gasps. He pins man’s right arm to the ground and presses to at his wrist to loosen his grip on his weapon, but gets punched by his left fist. It rings, it flares and he tastes blood. Next moment they roll. Two hands around his throat and wide-faced sweat and spit dripping fury above. He is strong. But what did brush against Volch’s hand? A handle. That axe… He brings it to man’s back. Scream. Release and gulping for air. Volch pushes. Back on top, he straddles him and slams the axe down. Blood sprays. And again. Metal grates against bone. Body stills beneath him. Volch bends over, presses his hands into quickly spreading warm puddle a coughs few times, his throat still getting over previous chokehold. Then he straightens and looks around.

It is over, dead silence falling on the stream, except of Nurij cursing the injury he received and creak of strained wood. Volch looks at water sploshing against barrier, then at pile of dug out material right between stream it was supposed to bar and canal. _Better sure than sorry._ He waves his hand in the direction and calls at the two Cheremisi.

“Shovel that dirt back down.”

Then he looks towards the battlefield. Villagers are running to the opening in their palisade, two rows covering their retreat turning their tail too to haste out of water’s way and a handful of men holding themselves at the edge of crowd and staring expectantly towards the forest. His mouth twitch. He looks down at the corpse beneath him, grabs him by his hair and hacks down few more times. Then he gets up and walks to the edge of clearing.

“Waiting for something?”

He yells amplifying his voice through magic.

“Maybe this?”

He raises his left arm high to give a good view of the chopped of head and then throws it down the slope. Now true dismay blooms among defenders. Vargan's Cheremisi sensing the shift scream triumphantly and speed up. Satisfied, he walks back, retrieves his knife and helps Aga and Nurij fill up the gap until it seems stable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is mention of females in Svjatoslav’s army by a byzantine chronicler, so so much for shield-maidens. As for Mari people among whom Cheremisi belong… I don’t have evidence for nor against. And while Kugurak and his ascendency among worshipped spirits is described in the second book of the series, “Kugurak’s sacred” are something I made up for this story.
> 
> Now the flooding trick... I thank for the inspiration second season of Versailles, where William of Orange prepares similar nasty little surprise for Louis’ army.


	5. And Aftermath

Trap ruined and forces seriously depleted, defenders flee and barely manage to lock themselves up behind palisade. From behind it, they pester with arrows, rocks of all sorts, boiling water and very angrily swung weaponry. Siege doesn’t last long anyway. It couldn’t against sceptre powered by two shards of Zirnytra’s scale and centuries’ worth of deviousness behind it.

Smoking and splintered, wings of the gate not only burst open, they fall apart, hinges too strained and planks cracked, more and less visible damage running deep. Volch is among those who barrel in first. He nicked from someone a new spear and buries it in the gut of a nearest man, slashes at somebody else’s throat, hot splatter on his hand, and then shoves the first one into men behind him, stinky entrails sticking to the sharp tip and wooden shaft. He looks around. _Where’s the leader?_ Parries a shovel and smacks the one wielding it across head knocking him down. _The sooner we get him, the sooner this is over._ He dodges a strike of a hammer and slices its owner’s side. Down he goes.

Then he spots the helmet, cold-grey steel glinting through dirt, axe flying around it in mighty swings. Vargan wants him alive, but that might be a bit difficult to achieve. The retinue is being pushed back and thinning, their desperation obvious. Soon, the place is overrun rank of defenders gets broken into smaller groups forced to drop their weapons. Including its core. Vargan cuts through the crowd to personally kick the man who challenged him into mud at his feet, stepping on his neck and biting out his earlier words about worms and crawling.

It takes some time to get full control of the village with more than triple amount of its normal population and sort everything out. Volch walks to where the main instigators are held for a time being. Legs tied together, hands too and a sturdy lengthy piece of wood pushed bellow bend of knees and above elbows, holding them in sitting position. One of them is a white-haired old man with no battle gear and didn’t take part in the fight, but all five were beaten. The youngest one is Svjatoslav’s age, the rest more or less middle-aged and two of those look rather similar, same robust build, slightly upturned noses, dark shoulder-long brown hair, shapes of mouth with thicker upper lip. He crouches in front of them with bowl he found lying somewhere around and filled with water. His offer isn’t rejected.

“Why did you rebel?”

He is met with a glare of their chief so burning that he is sure that if he didn’t wait with his question till the man swallowed, he’d have that water spat onto himself. Volch doesn’t change his expression.

“I mean no insult. I am a mercenary and fought here to pay off my debt. I don’t know details, nor have I quarrel with you.”

“If you are that, why do you even care?”

The fourth, bald, man asks. It is a good question. He wanted to get involved as little as possible, but here he is. Volch tilts his head towards him.

“I also gather stories and preserve what’s worth remembering, deeds and lessons.”

“You don’t look like a bard.”

Remarks the youngest one. He shrugs and then lifts the bowl again.

“Anyone?”

First time he gave them only small gulp. The oldest man eyes it the most thirstily. Volch doesn’t wait for confirmation which might never come and just moves back to him. One sip. 

“What happened?”

The chief of the revolt snaps.

“Oh, let him drink in peace! I’ll tell you.”

Volch complies. And listens with deepening frown. He dives into the words, into grim eyes with distant stare and gently slip into the stranger’s mind. It is difficult to grasp, slipping past though the entrance is open and unguarded. When he is done with the elder, he scoops closer and inconspicuously touches the man, physical contact finally giving him firmer hold. Memories unfurl in messy recollections made better sense off by narration. And it is not pretty.

“You spoke truth.”

He breathes at last. Before more can be said, Nurij and few more Cheremisi saunter from behind a corner.

“Time’s up, fuckers, say your prayers.”

They remove the sticks and drag the defeated towards the centre of a yard, where Vargan and his retinue wait, condemning from their horses. Volch follows their steps silently and then stations himself next to Tugarin. Warlock’s light robe is caked and hair a bit tangled, but he still seems somewhat untouchable by surrounding grittiness, removed and high and aloof. Volch plasters on similarly indifferent expression, eyes looking firmly forward and reaches out mentally. 

_Guess what I’ve just learned. This massive costly mess happened because someone didn’t bother much to secure his newly gained territory and allowed it to be attacked by western rival, too busy getting his hands on Permans in the meantime. Well, happens. Afterwards that someone demanded full tax though, in fact raised a bit in the meantime. Very respectful plea for a bit of lenience is reprimanded. So it gets paid all the same. But the one in charge of collecting is a corrupt bastard who carves himself a fat slice out of it and then says, the remains are all he was given. Now that isn’t ignored. Bastard in charge gets enforcement to gather what is essentially a second tax and when they send a message defending themselves and accusing the other party of stealing, certain someone brushes it off. Second tax is to be gathered by any means possible. That’s apparently a leeway to sell number of these people as slaves. Including here the axeman’s daughter. That’s when they snapped._

_Ah, that explains the mutilation and also how little collectibles seem to be around. Can’t say I am surprised._

_Is that all you have to say? This is serious. Kokshaga didn’t uphold their part of the deal and then came and demanded more than was theirs and couldn’t be bothered to get trustworthy middlemen here. I cannot blame these people for revolting a becoming independent again._

_Your point being?_

_That Vargan isn’t a satisfying ruler. This is his fault._

_So? You want to turn around and walk away?_

_Of course not. This needs to be cleaned up. But for the future it’d be better if the mantle took someone more…_

Like Helga. They had their odds, her and Volch, especially after she took to Christianity and he wouldn’t be swayed into “cleansing” himself, but he’d always give her that she wielded the title of princess with shrewd grace.

_Temperate and reasonable. Better at maintenance and actually reading and winning people over._

He wonders if Išora could grow into that role.

_Vargan is… He has a useful drive, brutality and dependency on my favour that are suitable for pointing in desired direction and heavy lifting._

_He is an easy pawn for you and that matters to you more than how well the machine works. I expected something more… Impressive._

_Enough of that. We have a head of rebellion at our feet. Let’s make an example out of him._

Then he turns to him and speaks aloud.

“Execute him.”

And a bit more quietly, almost hissy, mostly for Volch.

“Slowly.”

He bows his head and, knife in his hand, moves towards the kneeling condemned. He stops in front of the leader of the uprising, looks over the damage done, swelling bruises. The man rises his head, looks at Volch with eyes that are shaken and aggrieved, but determined and it sends Volch back to Mordva. And back to handful more places. And back to childhood, to last glimpse of his uncle’s face. All those men, all those brave desperate leaders of their people are completely different, but their expressions are so similar.

“You fought well.”

_Go fuck yourself, Drakovič._ He grips the knife harder and then plunges it straight into man’s torso, where heart’s supposed to be. The man gasps and Volch tears out the weapon immediately. The blade was wide and he pushed deep, if he caught right side… Yes. His eyes roll up and he drops to the ground within handful of breaths. Decapitation would be proper, but with this small an edge, this comes the closest. Displeasure erupts behind his back, but he ignores it. Revolter’s closest circle, his younger brother and heads of the other three villages get the same end in quick succession.

He wants to walk back to their party, but Vargan rises his hand to stop him as he listens to Tugarin. Volch listens and taste in his mouth sours.

“This isn’t enough.”

“Something more impressive wouldn’t be bad… What do you suggest?”

“To teach them their lesson properly, we should do the same with their families.”

“Firstborn sons perhaps?”

Volch can see reason in killing adult ones, but children are malleable and good for forming bonds of trust and need. Hostage and puppet rule systems make use of that. _Not so wasteful and… It is a chance…_ Tugarin catches Volch’s eye for a moment and smiles cruelly.

“Whole families. And eight or nine randomly picked men who fought.”

Vargan frowns at Tugarin.

“Now that’s a bit too much. I want subjects, not graveyards…”

Touch of silver, almost visible silky sparkling strands enter warlock’s voice. Volch’s blood runs cold.

“What use are subjects that betray you readily? This way you will get rid of those of the same blood, who have defiance in hearts and would hear call for revenge, tear out these people’s leadership with whole roots and terrify the rest into compliance. And the property left behind shall be given to men from your ranks. They’ll help keeping the order.”

Vargan’s gaze is thoughtful and a bit unfocused. Then he nods and orders his warriors to bring those people. Terrified wails and harsh barking fill the air again. He stands still and implores Tugarin with insistent stare.

_Sudden mercy, spare few of them on demand of promise of lifelong loyalty. Or take them with us back to Kokshaga. Mercurial, but hopeful, that can be useful._

The other man is silent but clearly drinks in this. Volch cannot give up. He refuses to give up as commotion behind calms and he is waved to get down to work. He refuses to give up as he turns and starts. There are elderly, harmless and frail. Volch can live with that. They don’t have much time in front of them anyway. Knife finds its way beneath layers of cloth or through tears in garments. There are kids, two so young they still have their milk teeth. Spiky resentment writhes in his bowels. Abjection? Is that his price?

_Tugarin… Please. I beg you._

A boy with first feathery hairs above his lips. He tries to fight again, completely in vain.

_I am sorry, master. Just…_

Girl, pointy chin and split lip. Brave face poorly hiding her terror.

_Just say a word._

Another girl and she just weeps uncontrollably, snot at her freckled nose and pleas falling from her lips.

_Any moment._

A boy, eyes trained on the corpse of very similarly looking woman, probably his mother. At least he might not notice much. He does and the way his face cracks.

_Ask of me anything, just…_

The last one, missing front teeth and as Volch closes on him…

“Stop!”

He nearly drops the knife on spot. Vargan spurs his horse closer, until he looms over the wide-eyed kid shrinking in the shadow he casts.

“What’s your name, boy?”

“Šu... Šumat.”

“Do you regret deeds of your family, Šumat?”

Brown eyes shot to Volch for a moment and he nods jerkily at him. The boy looks down and answers.

“Yes.”

Vargan pushes blade of his spear beneath boy’s chin and tilts it up to look him in the eye, then leans a bit lower all stern and demanding.

“Will you disown them for their betrayal and promise on your life to make up for it in service to your chieftain?”

A pause and Volch pleads with his eyes and his fingers tingle with silver.

“Yes.”

Vargan takes the spear away and straightens again.

“Then I shall grant you a chance to prove your worth and wash away their shame.”

Then he turns to the rest of locals.

“And you should do the same. Because if we have to return again, both him and you will pay and there will be no mercy.”

They spend the night there, victors celebrating by feasting and fucking. One isn’t safe even behind bared door, they simply barge in and take whatever they want. There is a big fire built and some take to leaping above the flames. Aga among them and does she leap high. Vargan choses those, who shall be appointed in abandoned houses, all unmarried young men. Away from the centre, but what a treat landed in their laps here... Šumat is kept close at his side through the whole ordeal and then as Vargan joins the revelry, boy gets tied up near their horses for the night. 

Nursing a half-empty earthen jug of mead Volch watches from the deepening shadows villagers carrying away their dead, tending to the wounded (his help wouldn’t be welcome), trying to salvage what little they can. There is grief in some faces, puffy eyes and quivering lips, there is anger in others, jaws clenched and scowls foul, both mixing in many and all equally toothless, undercut by fear and disappointed weariness, backs hunched, just trying to be invisible for they are helpless. It is something quickly learnt, he can tell from experience. Days of tribal independence are nearing their ends everywhere, even in these untamed woods. So is it so much to ask it’d be done more carefully? The tug of living up to differing expectations, competing outlooks… He takes another swig, sharp tang and slick sweetness coating everything in glittering hazy hue. It still leaves something to desire. He’d prefer solitude, but then smoky presence joins him.

“Admiring your work?”

He puts the jug away.

“There is little to admire.”

“I agree. First you talk back and then instead of taking a hint you disobey my command.”

“So you respond with ordering death of five times more people?”

His tone sounds almost light to his ears, there is tranquil distance between his body’s actions and seething inside.

“After you fail to deliver properly intimidating execution? Yes. Numbers as compensation. Further toil to prove to all around my trust in you and my authority. This is your fault, dragonling. A rather foolish pathetic fault. So I hope you at least learnt from it.”

Volch turns to the older mage, something of fury inside leaking into his eyes and balled up fists.

“He didn’t deserve it. And neither did they.”

Tugarin grabs him by his chin, lips slightly curling to show the teeth.

“You did. That’s all that matters.”

It dawns on Volch like cold creeping morning mist. Tugarin doesn’t care at all. Five or twenty five or one hundred and a quarter, it is all the same to him and counts only as much as a magical next to him lets him, because only those are worth some interest. _Am I to become coldly indifferent to protect them from being used against me? What a thought…_

“So tread carefully, Volch. You should show some gratitude instead. What Vargan said wasn’t meant just for these folks. You misstep and it won’t be you alone, who will feel it. I will withdraw my boon from that boy.”

Cold mist turns into icy water. That scum… That’s why he granted the wish. Debt comes in handy, but blackmail so much more. _Well, if he is scum, you are a twit for handing him such advantage._

“Now get on your knees and swear your loyalty to me.”

Volch frowns. _I follow him around, kill for him and watch him hold a knife to a child’s throat. What more can he seek?_

“Now.”

The sceptre flares up with light and vibrates. He sinks into dirt.

“Repeat after me. I follow my master and my master only. I question merely to learn and obey in everything, deed and thought.”

Volch’s jaw clenches, but he does.

“Again.”

_What?_

Tugarin leans lower.

“You must mean it.”

He takes a deep breath, speaks in clear voice.

_Mean it, dragonling._

Volch closes his eyes. He thinks on the words, each one and its meaning, on memories attached to them. Those early years of his life when father trained him to take up his mantle, all clearly drawn in front of him. Lessons once Helga decided that instead of hoping her hostage would rust, she should hone him into her own instrument to their mutual benefit. Training grounds and crass instructions and booming voice of Svjatogor, who was the most irate and also the most skilled. Svjatoslav returning from Novgorod almost a grown man, but not quite and so open and eager and promising, that mere usefulness turned into a shared dream. He knew it, didn’t he? When he granted him freedom. He knew it would be a new chain. But it was a gift all the same and leverage against others and an act of trust. He speaks.

_That’s past._

Other man’s mind eats through his reminiscence like acid.

_Burnt. Think of present._

Volch digs his fingers into his knees. He tries to hold onto those sentiments and move to his current circumstances, but it frays. He needs to start anew.

_Think of me._

They both know Volch doesn’t feel loyalty to Tugarin. That he keeps looking for ways to turn the tables, hopes for the right moment and fears it is unreachable. They both know he haven’t got much. Yet. Future is uncertain. It would be unthinkable to not take some measures. Alright. Volch depends on Tugarin and that’s it, that’s it. Connect and transfer the feeling, what a sacrilege, but he’ll manage somehow. He speaks.

“Again.”

He thinks back to awakening from feverish pain into beauty of joined shards of a magical scale shared like a heartbeat and its instant relief. He thinks back to being impressed with power reservoir and skill of the older mage, to sheer joy that came with learning something new, the smooth cooperation earlier today before it got… The smooth cooperation earlier today and then… He dares to dream, what it could be like. _See it, I must see it as vivid as that fantasy of reunion with my brothers. No, more vivid_. Must fill his thoughts with the desired. Imagines the future days, makes them a plan. _It isn’t a lie, it is an option._ He speaks.

“Again.”

Mind is malleable. Levels, separated areas, if he cannot control stream of his thoughts so well still, hold the warlock out of the secret part still, he must hold it away from himself first. Must bury the anger and disagreement in hidden creases, bury everything, forget it, just for now, for long enough, for whenever Tugarin looks his way and if he keeps staring all day long then so be it. A mood, a state of mind, a pattern of thoughts, a role to play, a role to become, a belief… Like a garden (a labyrinth).

It is risky, deep roots and all and surely that’s a reason it is asked of Volch. It is useful, a skill to be used as on one’s self as on the others and with this specific mind-set accessed everything will be easier. _I need him, his guidance and his favour. I want it, I want it so much. I’ll get it. Understand and bend and fit him. Whatever the price. It is the only option. I will succeed, I will._ He opens his eyes, malachite green meets pitch black lined with fangs, its demands and challenges and gives itself over, throat and gut bared.

“I follow my master and my master only.”

He takes a shaky breath.

“I question merely to learn and obey in everything, deed and thought.

Black eyes spark with satisfaction and it feels good.

“And who is your master, dragonling?”

“Tugarin Drakovič.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long notes again, apologies. This is where I decided to get comprehensive about telepathy.  
> In the book one Volch can take over animals, but cannot read human minds, since his alternative to torturing a man for a location of a treasure is using his magic to search the woods. In the book two as Koščej he does break into someone’s mind to obtain info and is also stated to be weaker than he used to be as Volch.  
> So I am inclined to think, telepathy isn’t matter of power, though power always upgrades things, but rather skilfulness.  
> Now Tugarin in the first book invades people’s dreams to communicate with them.  
> Perhaps Tugarin is familiar with both dream-visits and telepathy (or it is the same thing) before joining the two pieces of the scale, or he can do dream-visits and with joining the pieces gets formula for telepathy disclosed. Now I am also going to make bold guess that it just might be easier to use dragon magic to access mind of someone who is too connected to dragon magic, which would be case with Koščej’s use of telepathy in book two.  
> I think Koščej learnt the technique from him. It would happen during that two month long imprisonment, which validates my opinion that Tugarin didn’t rely just on malnutrition and isolation in a dirty cold dark cell to break Volch, but actively assaulted his mind from afar. The mental contact allowing also to know about Tugarin’s plans.  
> The other option would be getting the hang of it when certain bear shaman demonstrated the same ability. But he reaches out in a way, that can be felt just once, otherwise it is more of passive awareness and they spend together less time, only few days and I doubt Koščej asked him how is that thing done. It is a different type of magic anyway. Really, Tugarin is a better candidate and it is also ironic.  
> Another option is that in the process of writing second book Červenák forgot Volch in the first one didn’t read minds, but that’s not an option I want to work with.  
> Speaking of second book… Holy hell! Tugarin drains Volch of magic completely, sends both his physical and mental health south and then tries to make him into a mankurt – kinda zombie slave and I am getting Reek flashbacks and… As he assumes the identity of Koščej, he resists. Compare with a fallen deity who still kept some spells being taken over (though not permanently). Maybe Tugarin got better grip on the skill of dominating people’s minds in the time between the two attempts, but still. Say whatever you will about the miserable bastard, Koščej’s defiance is a thing to behold.  
> Also… Svjatoslav tells Iľja in the first book he will not ask him to kneel and swear his allegiance, because he can see that Iľja is not inclined to promise anything at the moment and then Svjatoslav says that he is sure that Iľa will do it on his own eventually. Do you see the difference? Do you see it?


	6. AUTHOR'S LOG - Statement on the progress, or more like halt

I don't know when I will be able to continue in this project properly again, so in the meantime I am dropping here raw material - scenes that are completed and explanations in between them. The story pretty much is crafted, it just needs to be written down in particulars.


	7. Chapter 7

(Key is finding good balanace between Tugarin’s ministrations taking their toll on Volch and Volch managing to make Tugarin do something Volch wants, he must get something out of this deal, leave his mark on Drakovič too…

I decided that this dumpster fire needed some magical experimentation, where Volch is more of a test subject (but also trains by managing those trials) and he goes along partly cause he is a bit curious too and also a bit of junkie on a sense of achievement and endurance so like "yes, challenge me and see how I don't flinch, put me into crazy conditions and be surprised how I deal with them, how I keep surviving (lifelong practise)". It is not even about praise, though I am sure he loves praise. It's more of accomplishment and progress and seeing that whiff of respect. What do you mean he's got that from captive days and father seeing him less like a son and more like a successor that needs to get ready real quick? This is just a completely random quirk, useful quality actually, shut up... Ok, yes, he knows, so what, it got him far.)

They keep bargaining. For the smallest thing, for every single thing. It is stimulating. It is tiresome. He feels he got worse deal all the time, but it is probably a victory he gets to negotiate in the first place. And isn’t that too just scrapes thrown to him by Drakovič? Everything has a price. Even theft and false indulgence. He might still trick out of him more than Tugarin intends him to have.

Svjatoslav liked his surprises and he liked Volch guessing at his plans and thoughts, but ultimately liked the best to get them into open. Because it was getting people on the board and there was friendship and trust, being comrades, being družina. It was Volch who was more likely to keep secrets, at times blatantly mysterious, in other matters appearing transparent with certain pieces of knowledge and wording. It could be blinding instead of illuminating. He got taste of his own medicine made twice over bitter with Tugarin. Veslajev wasn’t dissimilar, it seems to have to do with the connection to serpents.

But it goes beyond quirk of personality, because this is a truce and a feint and they are running circles around each other. As if prompted by irresistible instinct and pent-up aggression. Tugarin might want his usefulness and maybe even him, but he is still also bitter over being attacked in Suwar. And eager to dish out harshness and put him in place just because. Volch has been having his own sense of rivalry. No one else riles him up that much. No one else makes him titter between need to snap, to challenge and need to bow his head.

It might be a dragon thing as well, the scale driving them together and their natures apart and into fight over dominance and territory. Zirnytra’s sons flew into different corners of the world, away from each other, after all too. In theory it can be handled with respect and satisfaction. What the two of them practice is about the exact opposite. Who will end up sharpened and who blunted? Tugarin gets sadistic kick out of it and Volch is left with crumbles of small insignificant rebellions and mouth-watering aroma of future payback. He wonders if he might starve and actually forget how to eat.

He glances at pastries and piece of goat cheese he brought with himself in the morning suspecting he might not return down from the cave for noon. Those too should have been eaten, for Dažbog was past the highest point of sky, now riding towards the western horizon, but somehow Volch still doesn’t find it in himself to do it. He returns back to loops and crevices of his mindscape, trying to hold all the currents in awareness and redirecting or hiding them at will, and in between those attempts checking dark entrance to his right. There is a spell placed which gets triggered when he tries to enter or when he walks too far away and he cannot even tamper with it, as he found out the hard way, because its principle is in sensing presence of dragon magic.

Darkness shifts with pale silhouette. He straightens as Tugarin slowly walks out, steps a little uncertain and steel sceptre less carried and more leaned on. He sent his spirit outside his body and after hours spent in such trance, needs a bit of time to recover his equilibrium. Hours which he would have Volch waste here, no better than a scarecrow sticking out of winter field.

“Have you found something new about blood sceptre and the last shard of Zirnytra’s scale? Master.”

Drakovič raises a hand to stop his questions and then motions for Volch to hand him a jug filled with water. A nod or shake of head would be enough. Or he could use telepathy. Gods know he loves to stroll in and interrupt Volch’s thoughts, either with a request or gleeful reaction to what he’s just mused about, often enough. It never fails to send spikes through him. Sometimes welcome, a bit excited, for there is something appealing in this immediate comprehensive form of connection. Other times not so much - invasive, scary, humiliating… _Stop! He still observes._

As he hands him the refreshment, he tries to dive inside the other mind as he did few times, but gets repelled with a sting. Only one of them allowed to call the shots. And only one with strength to get his way every time. _Don’t think of that! When he senses discomfort, he sneeringly probes all the more for it._ This is on purpose, Tugarin taking something out on him and maybe in mood for drilling in discipline and maybe both. So be it. Itching with impatience he silently waits while the white-haired man drinks.

“It is progressing.”

“So nothing.”

Tugarin bristles.

“Excuse me? I said…”

Volch continues in emotionless tone.

“The time you spend searching has changed in the past days and every time you emerge you are in foul and unresponsive mood.”

That is not as secreted as plans and arcane knowledge, momentary states are usually to be observed freely and Volch tunes in both out of sense of self-preservation and sincere curiosity.

“And it is growing worse. You’ve hit a problem. Isn’t remaining in such a dead end senseless?”

Drakovič stalks to him, sceptre pointed somewhat threateningly towards his face and the scale alight, melody stern.

“Are you talking back again?”

Fistful of fabric to relieve tension, but open face, unflinching eyes.

“I only question you to learn. If you told me details of your method and findings…”

“And I teach you as I see fit.”

Which is very little both in instruction and allowing direct contact with the sceptre. If Volch is supposed to improve his abilities on his own, there is no point in apprenticeship, for he’s been doing exactly that ever since Vseslajev died. It all comes down to becoming too formidable under provided guidance for the warlock’s taste. He must come up with something that Tugarin will find desirable enough to “risk” that.

“I want to help.”

Volch says in softer tone and tries to pour sense of gentle care and shared longing for missing piece of the scale, even hint of admiration into his voice, into mood around them. Tugarin watches coldly before pushing the water-filled vesel back into his arms.

“Then stop standing in my way and pestering me like this.”

And he starts walking away.

“I can do more. If you showed me how to travel…”

“You are not ready.”

_To go or to be trusted?_

This time reaction does come.

_Both._

_How do I become that? What do you ask of me? I will do…_

Tugarin turns back and cocks his head, expression something between thoughtful and predatory.

“Anything?”

Volch refuses to be cowed, be it by intimidation or common sense, with prospect of headway finally on the horizon.

“It’s why I am here. Just say what you have on mind.”

“There are few… Endeavours that require second participant of certain power level to be carried out in practise. Maybe adjusted a bit in accordance with findings, spawning new ideas… If you pass, maybe you will be able to handle also what you’re so harping about.”

_Oh dear, decades and decades of gathering suggestions and having tied hands due to being a lone mage (because let’s face it, baghaturs were actually warriors just as goriniči and priesthood skittering in shadows like mice had dully drilled knowledge and scarce abilities) and those works you could engage in that made the sewers of Zilantaw so filthy have been over ever since you had to leave… Let me scratch that itch (raw and bloody)._

“I am in.”

.

Through haze of pain and exhaustion a memory emerges. Of training grounds, breathlessness, glinting steel and amber, looming vexed figure and frustration aching more than beaten body. Rumbling voice. “Once you’re good enough to face me, then I’ll allow you to shoot your assumptions in my face.” Facts of life that. Volch does respect mastery. Does respect might. There is little else to do. So he bows his head in surrender.

.

“Last echo somewhere near Ural was just an old cooling spot of a fight. Since then nothing.”

“Could the wielder have found out it is searched for and raised a barrier? That’s what I did after Sura.”

And cannot anymore, ever since the shards were joined. Tugarin shakes his head.

“I was aware of malachite sceptre being nearby, only couldn’t pinpoint its position and come close enough to watch you. With this one it is… As if it was gone from this world.”

“It cannot be gone. The shards are indestructible.”

“I know!”

Volch presses his lips together.

“Have you tried searching for a dragon it belongs to?”

Three shards of Zirnytra’s scale, each attached to one of her sons and given to people for protection.

“No trail either. Not even echoes. But his glyph is alive.”

“And Goryn?”

“I thought of that already. The answer is yes. I can get inside your enchanted mountain. It is different from that as well.”

Volch nods and steeples his fingers.

“Have you heard stories about my people’s gods? Where they live and such?”

“I gathered something. Theirs is immortality and vitality, their own, but also manifestation of such quality. They live in a version of a tree of life called Greatoak, which grows on a sacred island Buyan, where no mortal is allowed to step.”

“Mead drops from its leaves and it’s called great for a reason, roots so massive, you could carve a house inside, trunk wide like a town and so tall it is, its branches disappear in clouds. And it is surrounded by lush meadows and grooves, where spring never ends and sun stallion grazes. All this fertility thanks to water of life flowing from beneath Alatyr – large enchanted amber crystal embedded at the base of the tree.”

When describing beauty of that place he can hear his mother’s melodic voice, soft and warm like candlelight and silk ribbons.

“Wellspring of life is a great power, coveted treasure and so is guarded by nothing less than death. Just as it balances everything in our world, it surrounds the island as river Smorodina which cannot be crossed. Some say it is made of red liquid fire spewing its choking fumes and smoke, other that it is a rotting river of dead, its smell making one faint and its touch corrupting flesh and any tool, so swimming and sailing aren’t feasible. There is only one connection between land of gods and human realm. A single iron bridge called Kalinov, which has a guardian that is too as death itself. A dragon, terrible scaly beast red as if soaked in blood and his name is Rudrog. Baba Jaga, a witch from northern woods and a spook children are told about to behave, is his master.”

Volch shrugs.

“It’s a bedtime tale, but it would explain that disappearance and also being north.”

“One of ancient Zirnytra’s sons who were wildness itself serving as a watchdog to some cad cult with milk dripping down its chin is rather curious development, don’t you think? Makes one wonder what happened to mages of blood sceptre.”

“I hoped to ask you that.”

(I have yet to figure out what on earth happened with wielders of blood sceptre and how did Rudrog come to live not in human world, but Smorodina as a guardian rather than independent menace, but Tugarin should provide not whole but some information)

.

(Vargan is nasty to Išora and there is talk of how there needs to be a heir produced from this marriage rather than some bastard with other woman for the sake of succession. Volch observes and goes out to gather some herbs.)

“Red clover, meadow crane's-bill, wild celery and few more things. It helps with conception.”

Then he reaches into a hidden pocket a takes out a different bundle. He was especially surprised to find pennyrile this far north.

“And this mixture prevents it.”

She looks up, picture of speechlessness, small mouth slightly parted and doe eyes round with shock.

“Or stops it, if you get second thoughts later.”

He adds.

“Past second month it would be too dangerous though.”

“Why?”

She breaths at last. Not about the danger, but him helping her, he knows. He frowns a little, looking past her. He risks doing this. He also looks back with gratification at majority of his risky choices. At daring and being able to take something for himself, at getting back at few people. He returns to her eyes again.

“I… Thought you might appreciate having a backdoor.”

_And I an ally._ Išora’s eyes spark with something sharp and heated. Yes, there it is, something tougher and wanting more deep down, but invisible to all around, she’ll make a good ally.

“Thank you. I don’t know how to repay…”

“No worries, we’ll get even later.”

Then he hears child’s footfalls behind, skitter coming to shy apprehensive halt. He turns around to see Šumat lingering uncertainly at the curve of the corridor. There two small white stubs of adult teeth where gaps has been. When Volch meets his dark eyes, they drop down fearfully. Probably still seeing that bloodied knife in his hand whenever he looks at him. Volch tries to sound as softly as possible.

“What is it?”

“Great koldun Tugarin told me to bring you to him.”

He inhales a bit more sharply despite himself.

“Then we shouldn’t let him wait. Thanks for coming. Now lead the way.”

.

Time ceases to exist, outer world – what even is that phrase, there is only rough stone and silver shine of Zirnytra’s scale. And strain. To bear assault, to tap into previously unknown areas, to balance out volatile energies, to push his limits, to hold through examination. Strain. Amazement. Distaste. Comprehension. Bone-deep tiredness leaving him slack. Knowledge he succeeded. Drakovič.

When Tugarin wants, he can sound truly mesmerizing. Getting under one’s skin even without use of telepathy. Or Volch is just so ridiculously susceptible. _Dragonling..._ Just recently hatched from fervent darkness of death and tottering.

He cannot think of himself as dragon anymore. A long path towards that lies ahead of him. It seems longer and more breath-taking with each new lesson, be it in magic or cruelty. That he claimed the title before... Such a silly dream and such a rude awakening. But so many other men couldn't wake up anymore... _That's why._ He tells himself for hundredth time. That's why he has to be alone here. Alone with his quest. Alone with Tugarin.

Hot breath brushes his earlobe and neck, sending shivers down his spine.

“Decent...”

He still has to force himself to relax, but it is getting easier. He is no longer fighting flinching response to sudden weight of dry callused hands on his shoulders or elsewhere, perfectly still, waiting for further instruction like an inanimate doll. Thinking himself birch wood. That can be chopped. Thinking himself porcelain. That can be shattered. Thinking himself marble. That can be grounded. Thinking himself snow. Moulded and melted and muddied and never really destroyed.

Hands travel down his arms, to elbows, to wrists, shuffle of bare feet and pressure of other man's torso on his back. Tugarin lifts Volch's hands, directs their motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, Goryn guards Kalinov bridge over Smorodina. But this is fanfiction of a book-series, where Goryn is a lizard trapped beneath a mountain near Novgorod and the thing perched on that bridge is Rudrog. And the series also described Smorodina as filled with stinky dead flesh. I merged and extrapolated a bit, both decaying and burning are oxidation processes. Smelly supernaturally corrosive sludge and lava flow shall be associated together in this verse.  
> The last segment… Snakes are very tactile creatures and they are suckers for twisting around stuff, that’s all I have to say on the matter.
> 
> Canon Volch giving the writer pointed look with one eyebrow raised – “I think it stands to note someone is playing up this connection to dragons and reptiles both in traits and in the sense of kinship with the creatures. I’d say that we, wielders of shards of Zirnytra’s scale, are rather completely human tamers of those dangerous beasts and not experiencing any particular closeness and similarity.”  
> Writer shrugging – “Guilty as charged.”


	8. Chapter 8

He stands in the background, silent and keeping to shadows, but always at hand. He observes and follows and obeys and does his best to not attract any attention. Tugarin likes him mousy and subservient like that and it means more trust, willingness to actively teach him and less malice, but older mage has also other plans.

“Vargan agreed to limit himself a bit, but preparations for spring rest also on influx of certain rarer material. And with the costs from revolt on western borders, he has really set his mind on treating himself to something nice like that. Safer target was picked, but I have a reason to think, their party might stray for something more mouth-watering again. There’s been commotion of sort near Kazan.”

There is often commotion near Kazan.

“To keep them in line we might need a little overview. I’ll send you, my apprentice.”

He almost cuts himself on the knife he’s sharpening, thrown off by the suggestion and the threat it poses. _What?_ _That could out me. And complaining openly would jeopardize me even more. And not only me. Šumat is somewhere nearby, scrubbing floor, fixing nets, fetching things or actually being trained to fight for Vargan in few years’ time._ He regrips the whet stone.

“I don’t need to study pillaging. Certainly not under them. I’ve dealt with all sorts of robbers and way more effective Varangians for years under Svjatoslav.”

“Good, you might teach something them. It’s not a lesson, but service. You’re not here just to hole up comfortably and play with runes and spells, Volch. I am very forthcoming with my care, but it’s not done for free. There is work to be done.”

“And I’ll gladly do my share. If you teach me how to separate myself from my body, I can help you search for the third shard. That’s what I am suited for.”

“There will be time enough for that afterwards. Now I require you keeping them on the leash.”

“Vargan won’t listen to me. He fears you, but I am nobody in his eyes.”

_Worse than that, actually._

“Reasonable concern.”

Tugarin nods and then steeples his fingers in front of him thoughtfully, mischief filling his eyes.

“I’ll keep him occupied with something else, so someone lower in the hierarchy will lead the strike. They’ll be easier to herd in.”

He certainly cannot dissuade him. Might as well at least get something out of it. Now, rather than rely on that lure Drakovič dropped before, ask for something with appearance of relevance.

“Easier done with Compelling.”

It is better than hitting someone with a spell that confuses them for few minutes, like when he made soldiers in Suwar let them stay inside the city and get lost in its streets. This is refined, leaves recipient more functional and effect longer-lasting. A mix of rhetorics and charm and while Volch considers himself good at explaining and convincing, what Tugarin does is a level higher, an actual pervasive undertone of compulsion and after joining of the scales a breath-taking ability to downright physically stop somebody has started to emerge. He’d like that too. And he’d like a counter. Mere observation wasn’t doing the job, there was some sort of elusiveness woven in. It’ll take an actual instruction. White haired warlock fixes him with a pointed stare.

“The firmer the hold, the smoother carrying out and larger gain. And it should be large, if it is to keep Cheremisi from straying too close to alluring Kazan.”

Tugarin is silent for a long while and his face expressionless. Volch waits, expectant and unrelenting. Eventually the older man shrugs.

“Alright. I’ll show you.”

“Thank you, master.”

It takes few hours to get proper hang of, those chains slippery and heavy. _How much do you desire to dominate? How well can you tune to the other being and see the miniature, miniscule mechanics that make their fanciful wilful selves (from that angle everything looks a bit like things to be tinkered with, even you yourself a bit)?_ And he is still far from the level of the older mage but finally wrapping his magic around strings by which Tugarin pulls some random woman into climbing up a tree for a specific fruit in upper branches and feeling how he could snap them should he press just a bit sends a surge of something wild through his core. _Picking up a notion already existing and taking it to the front is better than crafting and forcing on something foreign. To fight dominant motivation proper takes the greatest skill and will._ And when he manages to make her give that laboriously gathered fruit to a friend sewing something seated in grass nearby it makes the wild satisfaction of assurance and of triumph and something visceral spread to every vein, exhaling shakily.

“Exquisite, isn’t it?”

He turns to the older mage, dark eyes half-lidded, but with glittering needlepoints looking at him and faint smile on thin hard lips. Control. The tension between taking it for himself and taking it from someone – he knows both sides. It shouldn’t have to be the same thing. Add invisibility… The implications are colourful and somehow pale next to the thrill of it. Volch nods mutely.

“You can go and prepare for the raid.”

When he turns to depart though, suddenly a hand closes around his neck, its fingers painfully digging into little hollows, grip pressing him down.

“Don’t flunk it, dragonling. It must be a success in order to start building up Vargan a rival.”

He hisses and nail of his thumb traces Volch’s artery before releasing him. _This is it?_ He wonders as goosebumps break out on his skin. _Does he really think it will work and he will secure Vargan’s dependence on his support and undercut tribe’s resistance by dissent and uncertainty? By setting up a competition and possible replacement? Or he’s just bored and likes to see people squirm? Probably both._

In the end it is three things.

.

_Most of the palace is still asleep, war council lasted long into night. It is only Volch and his companions in the stables saddling their horses. Crown prince’s horse is already prepared and he’s seen Hassan outside talking with his father. When he returns, they’ll set out._

_He is a little farther from his Thirty and other bogatyrs, at the moment not having patience to spare for Mikula and Jegor squabbling and his men speculating about their opponents. Volch once again checks if the strap is tightened enough and hears familiar footsteps – leather of the highest quality, self-assured strides, strong, but not heavy, heels hitting ground with clear short sharp sound and leaping up again zestfully, restless. When he straightens again a shadow appears in blue glow of early dawn streaming in._

_“You’d depart without saying goodbye, would you…”_

_Svjatoslav’s voice isn’t chiding, just unsurprised._

_“I couldn’t possibly wake you up, when soon you will be up to neck in your own responsibilities. Not after that previous exhaustive day.”_

_Svjatoslav shakes his head, golden earring sparkling even in weak light._

_“Yesterday was exhaustive for us all, we were together in it. And what sort of gosudar would I be, if I didn’t personally see some of my closest men off on such a great task?”_

_Volch’s eyebrows rise a bit. It is touching and quite brilliant._

_“Thanks. Others will find it inspiring too, I believe.”_

_“I’d hope so. It is a mission on which success of this campaign rests after all and quite dangerous in itself.”_

_“Yes.”_

_Svjat continues watching him intently._

_“Are you ready?”_

_“Of course. As much as one can be ready for sneaking into lion’s den and battling its pissed off dweller.”_

_You’re never ready. You just try to prepare and wait till the clash starts and then do your best to get out of it alive. He shrugs._

_“But that’s usual business. I’ve got this.”_

_“Very usual, facing a wizard with the same sort of rare magic and an actual flying fire-spewing man-eater of a beast at hand.”_

_“What can I say, I live an unusual life.”_

_He laughs, but the sound is not his most relaxed. He looks at his horse and trails his fingers through its brown mane._

_“Hey, dragon, enough of that false confidence.”_

_Grand prince’s hand clasps his shoulder and warmer softer tone breaks through more surely than imperiousness could. Volch pauses and locks his gaze with Svjatoslav’s. Blue like sky on fire._

_“We’re not among other boyars and Bolghar nobility, nor do you need to play unshakable leader to your goryniči.”_

_He inhales more deeply before answering._

_“I don’t want to disappoint you.”_

_“Then speak your mind, brother. I can tell something’s eating at you.”_

_“Where to start? There were plans, predictions and it’s been all thrown into disarray.”_

_“That tends to happen when one gets down to the actual work. We adapt and we are good at it.”_

_There is something so unshakable extended towards Volch. It’s part of what makes Svjatoslav so good at gathering followers._

_“Yes.”_

_“So?”_

_He heard Svjatoslav promise Ilja they would kill the serpent. He himself hasn’t said anything so far. There is plausible deniability in such silence. And there is also trust. He wrings his hands around his sceptre and forces the words out._

_“I planned to create a spell similar to the accident that trapped Goryn within his mountain. Stasis instead of yearly feeding on captives or death. It…”_

_It goes against his nature to kill the creature. Not matter what a rabid demon the black drake is in his opinion. “Gorynič” in a way is just a title and in some other way it is more than that. Magic in the blood. Responsibility for it. Duty to both kinds._

_“Is an advantage, something with which to threaten enemies.”_

_Blonde prince crosses his arms on his chest, expression a bit wary, though he tries to not reveal much (he is still learning that art)._

_“And could he actually be released and controlled afterwards?”_

_“They won’t be eager to find out.”_

_And he does fear a bit he’d be willing to do it for the prince. He’d call on Goryn and Zilant both and repeat Drevlyan ruin with drakes instead of birds and hot coals tied to their talons, if he could and Svjatoslav needed it._

_“I see your point. Also risks. It would be for the best if the beast died anyway.”_

_But Svjat wouldn’t ask it, or rather wouldn’t want to have that option at his disposal. Volch knows what he told emir Ahmed about his choice to ally with Bolghar against Suwar instead of the other way around. That they do not worship gods, but demons. It is a friendly thing to say, similar to Ahmed’s views and also gives appearance of more strength than stating that Suwar would be less likely to cooperate. It is also not a lie. He won’t remark on the fact Zilant and Goryn are siblings._

_“Safer, I know. My plan relies on keeping him asleep.”_

_It works better also if he tries to make it look like a slaughter, while preserving his life under torn down rubble of that accursed tower. A secret as few other things._

_“Tugarin will want to wake him up and force a battle though.”_

_A warm-up before Zilant flies north to burn down Bulgarian and Kievan army and start a beastly reign over the whole region (did they cause it or merely provided an excuse for the warlock?)._

_“Correct.”_

_And if Volch doesn’t want to kill Zilant in self-defense he will have to take control of him, and he doesn’t think he can hope for that with only malachite sceptre in his hands. Either way, he needs to defeat Drakovič first._

_“I hoped that once I would take steel sceptre from Tugarin I could spend some time talking with him about things he knows.”_

_“How you wanted to talk with that thieving witch that nearly brought her cave down on everyone inside?”_

_Volch smirks._

_“You didn’t complain when I later used her spell to unleash panicked vermin on those men who hit upon our backs at Dubno, gosudar.”_

_Svjatoslav rolls his eyes._

_“Back to Tugarin.”_

_He nods, sombre mood retaking him quickly._

_“I thought it would be… Not easy, but more or less even. That’s why I didn’t try to deter you before.”_

_Like he always does when he considers something too risky. And truth be told… Part of him was curious what it would be like to stand against another dragon mage, attracted to a chance to defeat That. Steal That. He was worried, but he was beginning to look forward to it with more and more certainty until they crossed Sura. He thinks he might deserve to be slapped for that. He starts pacing._

_“There were no reports, nothing. I was convinced he’s grown passive through weakness, old age finally taking its toll.”_

_Dragon mages tend towards longevity, the more the better is condition of their dragon and there must be some enigmatic ways to add to one’s lifespan, but even Drakovič is only a human. And instead he travels astrally and just stopping him from spying on them near Sura river knocked Volch to the ground breathless. What was that, just what?_

_“But it has turned out to be the opposite. My father spoke of him as a fearsome legend.”_

_Vseslajev, hardened tricky Vseslajev who crafted an alliance with wild and scorching Ruriks, taught Pechenegs more than one lesson, crossed lands, where others feared to step, was actually intimidated._

_“And now he might be even more powerful than then.”_

_He didn’t tell Volch much about him, mystery clinging both to the speaker and to the one spoken about. That made difficult to predict. Volch can feel boost from lives taken in clash with Bulgarians. It might be even more with the head of emir’s heir, ruling bloodlines somehow did have increased potency, but the young man was indeed more useful alive as a bridge to unity with Bolghar and now a highly capable and driven comrade. With or without… Will it be enough? He stops walking and seeks out gosudar’s face._

_“I cannot promise I will win. Even with some of our best bogatyrs aiding me.”_

_They jape about quests of almost certain deaths and crushing things with their bare hands, his wonderful brash brothers, not knowing what they are up to._

_“Even if we hit before Zilant rises. I cannot.”_

_Here it is, his fear, not just acknowledgment of ever-present possibility, but actual fear and rue he tried to ignore. He didn’t want to part like that. He does cherish Svjatoslav has come. Blast his contradictions, blast everything._

_“But the only path leads forward.”_

_The prince responds quietly. He understands, grasps the graveness, stakes, responsibility. Frowning, mouth set hard, stare darkly boring somewhere past Volch’s legs, he nods. Right here at the beginning these might be the last moments of… Everything. Then with a deeper inhale he rises his chin, shadow cast by heavy brows disperses in shine of eyes that are stormy, but not torn up inside. Unshakeable. Eyes of a Grand prince._

_“Thank you.”_

_Volch blinks in confusion._

_“For your loyalty and your faith. For how you served me before, for what you’ve just told me, for where you go for me. Regardless of how it ends.”_

_He steps forward, rough fingers wrap around Volch’s forearm, he returns the hold._

_“And if it ends in fire, it will be the brightest fire these lands shall see in ages.”_

_Fucking glory? But of course…_

_“And we will land a blow that will cost them.”_

_Glory and retaliation._

_“I don’t need your promises. I know you will do your best. It is enough, Volch.”_

_Grip tightens, almost painfully._

_“And I feel in my bones. We. Will. Meet. Again.”_

_He let’s go and steps back, soon afterwards Hassan comes in and they all mount their steeds and leave stables. Svjat has few more words for their company, dauntless and proud and well-wishing with a sprinkle of humour thrown in and they respond in kind._

_“Take care.”_

_“You too.”_

_And they ride off, eyes firmly on the southern horizon, for the path leads only forward._

_._

He wakes up with wistful tightness in his chest. Dreaming of memory of his goodbye with Svjatoslav makes him wonder. This raid is both a reason and opportunity to disappear. It feels a bit like brink of something, point where the road splits in two that won’t cross again, something to pass. And if that’s not one of those nagging feelings of premonition than he’ll eat his shirt. But what’s coming up?

It builds up throughout the morning.

It flares up, when Tugarin arrives to gathering of raiding party with his “distraction” and after Vargan spits resentfully and then orders for his horse to be taken back into stables and unsaddled and Tugarin appoints a substitute leader he also announces that Volch shall accompany them with declaration of his name. There are few warriors who react with raised eyebrows and meaningful surprised looks exchanged.

_We agreed it stays private. You promised…_

_Vargan promised. I didn’t say anything._

That rings familiar in rather grating way.

_Atop Zilantaw. People watching, remember?_

_Is any of those people here?_

_That’s not the point. I wanted to leave that life behind with one neat cut._

_Then act that way and not like you are still one of the dogs that broke into my tower._

A reproach? What for? He thought he was doing well. Oh fine, he shall have handsome results at hand soon.

But as their group departs from Kokshaga, he does turn, fixing everyone with his hardest look and fisting silver threads of Compelling furiously.

“Do not use that name. At all. Call me Jul just as you’ve been until now.”

They nod silently.

.

They arrive at dusk. Which suits him. _Dark cloak and hood, illusion of white hair glimpsed beneath… Eponymous weapon. If a rod of magic can be disguised as a gnarly walking staff, then random spear can be made to look like steel sceptre._ Volch doesn’t want to leave anything to chance. If he is to back an attack on Tugarin’s behalf, he might as well look like him and alert the other side to Drakovič’s instead of his own presence. It will explain the type of spells, everything…

They stop at the edge of a village.

(Description of raid, then they are returning, but once in those lovely northern woods of theirs they cross path with someone unexpected.)

A regiment of Bulgarians. _What on earth are they doing here?! We are on our side of borders._ Their surprise has a bit anxious flavour to it. _They trespassed. For investigatory or other reasons. And wanted no witnesses._ Seeing the herded people with ropes around necks and hands and loot, desire for invisibility hardens into something more vitriolic.

(Fight ensues and when one segment of the part is pressed some more a cry for aid rises and it is his name. “Vseslajevič” ringing high and clear, followed by just as clear “Volch”, it freezes him on the spot for a moment. He wanted to simply chase those Bulgarians from them, but now none must get away, none. They do try though, he pulls compelling slowing them down, then someone stumbles into him from behind, knocking him to the ground. The spell breaks and Bulgarians do escape. Confrontation with the man who did it comes next.)

Volch grabs the man who ruined his cover and pulls him aside uncaring of startled gazes around and slams him into a tree. At least a bit hurt gasp and eyes wide with terror. _Yes, be afraid!_

“What was that?!”

“Wha…?”

“Why did you call out my name?!”

_And how, when I did take precaution?_

“I…”

He doesn’t wait, he presses his hand against the man’s brow, thumb digging into one temple and middle finger into the other and searches his mind. Pained shout and feeble attempt to wriggle out and push Volch away are faint against sparkling conduit of thoughts, memories, impulses and he furiously pushes past buzz of panicked present stream of consciousness and tears through tender fibres beneath until… There! Body pressed against the oak shakes and whimpers. Volch is captured by revelation emerging.

Silken voice worming in during wake time and during sleep, on repeat, each time deeper and hiding under layers like a parasite, mankurting, planting his enchantment so much stronger than Volch’s single short little tap. A buried switch for opportune moment, an unquestioned command to “Shout his name as loud as you can, when southerners are in earshot and momentarily overwhelming, shout for his help and then ensure some get away.”.

Rage lashes through him. _That maggot, that piece of shit, that utterly rotten miscarried waste!_ He growls and before he knows it, his first hand digs into man’s head for real, vice grip and drawn blood under nails and he smashes it against the tree trunk as if he could crush Tugarin’s order and unmake the deed and his second hand presses and knife in it ends deep inside, up to the hilt and it scratches against bone as he tears it out and shoves the instrument of that hateful scheme away. _To know Vseslajevič switched sides and to spread the word. To know Vseslajevič switched sides and..._ Fuming, he presses his brow to rough bark. And notices wet dent under his skin. Feet bumping against something. _That warrior… Nurij is his name._ He steps back and looks down. _Was._ Knife is still tightly clutched by Volch’s right hand and blood is pooling under the Cheremis and his shoes, hair on the back of his head dark and sticky with blood and facial expression vacant and pained. He has… He had three kids and was a rather good trapper.

Volch’s hands shake, rage falters under wave of dismay. He’s just killed someone for something that wasn’t their fault. For being as much of victim as him. For growing frustration he can’t release at its source and thus ended up venting on a weaker target like he’s never heard of discipline. For endangered private plans. For being deeply offended by getting outsmarted like this without having a clue. Mikula told him he had tended to overreact to getting played and he thought he got better, but look at him now. _Really well conducted, Volch, please, all pay their respects…_ What happened to his detachment? And it’s been only few weeks. How deep he wants to sink in next months?

A new urge, to bash his own head against the tree, but then he hears approaching shuffle of feet behind followed by one or two gasps. He freezes. The others are nearby. _Get hold of yourself and at least don’t lose a face._ He turns to them with stone-hard expression. _Let them think you too harsh and punitive as long as it is also fearsome and certain in your choices._

“Anyone else thinking my direct commands are to be ignored as you please?“

He makes sure to meet eyes of each man in front of him. All but three look away. And all respond with silence.

“Answer!”

“No.”

“Good.”

He sheathes his knife and walks through them back to their horses and cargo.

“Now put the body next to the others fallen.”

The men comply silently. Soon enough they are riding Kokshaga again.

Who’s to say Tugarin didn’t send other pawns into motion? Other people with planted instruction, more than one instruction, other beasts than specific instructions, completely beyond notice… Volch’s breath hitches. _Could he… Could he have done that to me too?_ He frantically searches his mind. There’s plenty of opportunity - they are together every day, Volch needs to sleep too, all the brushing of the minds.

He does find dusty cobwebs, little momentary coercions long overdue and the filthy sticky feeling makes him want to claw them off violently and he bristles with affront at each next all anew, but ultimately they don’t matter that much. Little everyday corruptions he’s known about, just didn’t realize they had to do also with this spell. They are the notions picked and pulled to the front. What else?

There, a thorny bundle, vines spreading in sunning spirals, roots deep in that old anger of his. He thought it waned, was over as those days when he had nothing, could protect no one, when he had to swallow bitterness and dissatisfaction with his superiors before he himself rose to power and could push back and put into motion his own designs. It was buried and finding himself at someone’s mercy again a fertile soil for little compulsion to lash out. Once spotted, it wilts, but remains wrapped around everything tightly. He sneaks away and tears the curse out unheeding of anything and sweat dripping from his brow as he pants kneeling on forest floor feels like blood. He thinks back to Nurij, the way he used to pat people on shoulders, and welcomes the hurtful sensation. What else?

He returns and throughout ride scours every nook he can think of, every layer, until he is reeling and almost falls from his horse. He doesn’t uncover any other planted switch, any long-term growing malady. But he cannot be sure, simply cannot and it leaves him shaken, so deeply shaken and fretful beneath more blatant offense. They reach the stronghold, sturdy stockade, shadow cast by roofing over gate. He pauses there, reluctant to step in, biting his lip, leather of reins creaking in his fists. _And where else would you go? South, together with a word of your actions?_

The wings of the gate open and through warriors and captives shuffling in he sees long white hair and robe, so starkly pale in muted earthy colours around, waft in the breeze, walking towards the procession, can hear steep sceptre hitting the ground despite clatter all around him, can feel the vibration reach his insides and bones. Silver desire and smoky repulsion. Volch clenches his teeth. 

Drakovič knew what he was doing. He could have let him have this, keep him on sidelines, have him working off skin of his hands to thank him for that consideration, that could be taken away any time. Tugarin was told back at Zilantaw this was Volch’s price and agreed to it. But no. Not only he forced him into the very thing that made him conflicted, he’s done it to let the world know Vseslajevič joined his side and actively made sure the news would get out. Just to hold him tighter and brag. A snide thought, the same cold sting that has been piercing his thoughts ever since he entered Kokshaga, pipes in. _And did you really think the secrecy would last? Maybe now, but after winter… Nothing surprising here. He doesn’t try to earn loyalty, he ensures it by leaving no other options._

The man stops at the other side of threshold returning his gaze.

“Well done, dragonling.”

Volch wants to punch him, see him spitting out those fine white teeth and bleed from broken nose, wants to pin him down in dirt and throttle him, eyes bulging and watery, wants to tear out his throat…

“And a time has come to teach you how to send your soul traveling.”

Everything halts. Is it Compelling again? No, not a spark of dragon magic. And yet… Here he is faltering. Where else would he go? Anywhere he wishes after this. As long as he leaves his body sprawled here. It’s almost funny. Volch closes his eyes as he lets his steed step inside.

“You might not manage on the first try.”

Tugarin warns him while laying him down on the cool dry rock of the hallowed cave.

But he does.


	9. Chapter 9

(Volch wonders about his options. Suppose Tugarin turns from shadow advisor into an actual overlord and Volch will be his right-hand man… Perhaps, once he would get rid of him, he would claim Drakovič’s position that way and thus could return bringing this whole principality to Svjatoslav together with Tugarin’s head and greater magical skill… Could it make up for all that preceded it?

Aaand Tugarin declares that number of girls from the captives Volch brought will get sacrificed to Zilant. Everyone nods, but Volch confronts him in private.)

“I don’t understand the point of this, master. Is… Is the bloodbath supposed to honour Zilant’s memory?”

Such sentimentality seems unlikely, but he has to ask.

“Of course not, though it is a wonderful thing to tell crowds. Thanks for the suggestion, maybe you’re no that useless in the end.”

_Appeal to pride then._ Never mind the point of contest is the action and not its justification.

“We don’t need crowds and their cheers, like some hedge frauds relying on cheap tricks.”

He fishes out a memory of Vargan invoking Kugurak by slaughter of horses in front of boulder which power he cannot access. The one shared - when both of them watched and Tugarin flooded Volch with disdain he felt and now he pours it into magical emission between them. He can feel Tugarin bristle. _And redirection._

“We have more important task at our hands, acquisition of the last piece of scale. They will not help us with that, only take time that could have been spent searching for it.”

To pride desire, all sorts of desires tangled and attached to the main one, to silver song that commands both their hearts. Second heartbeat does indeed quicken a bit. But that’s it.

“Don’t be short-sighted, Volch.”

Mocking.

“Once the scale is complete, I shall return and that’s when crowds will come handy.”

“Alright. You still didn’t say what am I to assist in?”

“Isn’t that obvious? Annual sacrifice was called off due to war and now we are resuming it.”

Volch pauses. Objections masquerading as something else failed. It is safer to back down as if nothing happened. But where is his own agenda in that? He takes a deeper breath before speaking more bluntly.

“I abandoned human sacrifices a long time ago.”

“Mmm and see how that served you in Suwar. But I get it, dragonling. From position of Kievan slave and with your dragon unavailable you had a bit difficult job winning yourself some favour. Scrubbing the cult of Goryn bloodless allowed you to build it anew, so well done. But Kievans are gone from your path. It is time to drop the unnecessary restriction.”

This is the last chance, the inflection makes it clear, so clear shivers run down his spine and he swallows fearfully. Then he thinks of the old dark altar and balance and lines drawn and feels the flux and ebbing of power in the air and something inside him hardens. He stops walking, fists tightened and tone biting.

“Unnecessary is something else here.”

Tugarin stops too. This is like one of those strange moments of familiarity, of past repeating itself. Drevlyan knyazhna futilely arguing with old dragon priest and Volch watching them and guessing the answer. He should know better than to play his mother’s role. But transgressions has been piling up – drowning him and he is desperate to grasp for some sense of control. Even if he cannot win, he at least wants the matters to be pointed out, maybe because they are so much worse. And consequences be damned.

“Zilant is dead. Not even trapped within distant enchanted mountain like Goryn. Dead. Sacrificing maidens to him is not only unnecessary, it is pointless.”

Tugarin’s face takes on predatory expression as he turns to him and starts walking closer. When he sees his eyes, something clicks together. This all is a mistake. Drakovič is not his father. There is no satisfaction in calling him out, because he has no standard to uphold, nothing to reluctantly admit. If he was to discredit him in front of Čeremis, he would harm himself too, so this is staying private and in front of him Drakovič doesn’t care and in fact wields his immorality against Volch to punish his “stupid little ideals”.

“Of all those around wondering about the same thing, it must be my own apprentice who dares to speak aloud…”

He might be annoyed by inconvenient opposition even more than he disdains scared snivelling bootlicking, but Volch has noticed Tugarin actually enjoyed some of these challenges. _He likes to see me try and then bring me down, not just to make me pay for it, but embrace his ways after I tried to resist. Corruption._ He fails to fight down tremble. _What am I selling it for? What?_

“…When it is him, who should know better.”

He presses the tip of the steel sceptre pulsing with spikes of pain and threat of actual agony under Volch’s chin to lift it and leans forward. His scrutinizing stare feels like a flaying knife.

“Or perhaps you do infer the meaning and reject it despite coming to me pleading for teachings. I find that very disappointing and lacking in gratitude. Rather disrespectful.”

Surge of chagrin and anxiety. But Volch wasn’t the one, who came asking, he accepted the offer as lesser of evils. _Mhm... And since then? How many times have you pleaded?_ A cold thought he doesn’t know how to fight. He takes a deep breath. He should try to make it about something else.

“Would you want an apprentice whose respect is so cheap as to be satisfied, when he is fed excuses instead of teachings?”

“I make no excuses. I make use of anything and everything available to increase the power that I so generously share with you. Be it shows that extend my influence over those misers or additional fuel from sacrificed virgins. You are no stranger to making use of legends when the weapon is gone. Zilant is just a convenient address now.”

_You didn’t care for him at all. A tool to use and leave behind without a second thought._

“Much like Goryn’s for you.”

It was a bit difficult to bond with infamous but very absentee dragon over echo of wondrous, though hidden, Zirnytra within very present shard of scale – the only thing from Volch’s home he managed to keep. Even before. His father, when divining, dreamed of mountains and caves. Volch’s sleep was most often filled with sky and frosty northern rainbow lights above the Varangian sea instead. But Tugarin had his drake nearby, in his own cellar and no inhibitions and stray sentiments to make him turn towards other figure. And yet Zilant was nothing to him. _It is not the same._

“All that matters is grasping the source of power. And just as we use any sacred sites, no matter to whom they belong, we harvest sacrifices. Thanks to the spell to keep Goryn alive which you showed me we can come up with new ways to benefit from it. Unnecessary? Sure. But far from pointless.”

The sceptre digs a little deeper.

“Understood?”

It is over, Volch cannot win this argument and the older man’s patience has run dry.

“Yes.”

Sharp edge of the scale grazes his skin as Drakovič roughly removes it.

“Now get going and prepare everything for tomorrow. You do know how.”

He does. Since childhood. Bowing his head with a murmur of “yes, master” he walks away. There is stiffness to his movements he cannot get rid of. When he sorts through the things in storage room his fingers feel numb and grip is white-knuckled. _I am about to become part of a perfect deadly loop. People will submit to demands and victims will be brought, because there is real threatening power. And it will renew and build up with each new string of victims. No longer a task, however flimsy a bond that was, but an end in itself, purely self-focused. And it will not end there…_ Cracking sound and sharp sensation inside his fist. He opens it, lets ruined pale shards fall to the ground, presses his forehead against wooden shelf and slowly exhales. He backed down in the dispute but resignation didn’t cool his blood down. He needs to do something, anything. And he will.

Volch finishes the gathering and checking of the tools and ingredients with half his mind away, agitation finally channelled and hands calm. When he walks out Dažbog’s golden stallion is setting down, disappearing behind horizon and two leather casings are sitting heavily in his pocket.

(Volch mingles with some Cheremisi warriors who are of mind to visit women among captives, he takes a rather distinct blade gained from some loot from one of them without his notice as frame-up evidence to cover his tracks (as in the man was not careful and a woman he fucked took it from him), gives it to captives together with casings containing intel on Cheremisi forces and strategies and also information where are boats and how to get to them and then does his illusion thingy, so they can move there seen not as captives, but locals. And Volch himself goes to Tugarin to do some apprenticing that includes illusions. Tugarin notices that something is going on, Tugarin notices that Volch has been running two similar spells parallel – one in in context of training with Tugarin to cover for the fact, he is from afar disguising group of escaping slaves. Cue subjecting him to that nasty paralyzing spell that later let him capture Kievans.)

.

He wakes up finding himself still weak and aching from a previous blast. When he turns his head pain erupts, beats at sides of his skull worse than any hangover and sends tremors through his body. He inspects the marks left by spell and his memory to reconstruct how it was done and how to answer it out of principle, even if it won’t be of use to him anymore. It does help in shaking off paralysis. He should try to flee. This was by all means a treason and it got uncovered and he must at least try to run away.

With a groan he gets on all four. World spins again, white buzz filling his senses, but he grips Zilant’s fang at his hip and chases it away. _Fine, I can do this._ He grasps the wall for support and then hears rapid footsteps. Too late. He will try to catch him by surprise, out of principle, but the chances of getting past him are slim. He drops back. Drakovič is going to kill him, isn’t he? He surely is. Fury emanating from his movement and from the sceptre in waves like heat suggests it. _At least I got the message out, soon it will reach Svjat._ He buries the thought. It must not be spotted no matter what, instead… _I was ready for this, since facing Tugarin atop Zilantaw, I was…_ The older mage reaches him, billowing white robe, bristling white hair and a beastly expression on his face. He drags Volch up by collar of his tunic.

“Are you feeling proud?!”

He slams Volch into rough wall.

“Are you telling yourself it was worth it?!”

He leans closer, tip of white-hot scale pressed beneath Volch’s chin and hisses.

“You are mistaken. One boat was captured and the sacrifice will take place with you fulfilling your sacred part.”

_Ah, he wants exercise of power more than equal punishment. Or at least that exercise first…_ Something in the back of his mind screams at him about danger and something else about hopelessness and he’s had enough shoulds and shouldn’ts. He lets his indignation and defiance flare up and consume everything in their path.

“Sacred?! It’s irresponsible! We were to defend humanity, keep the peace between dragons and our people and when we had no better means than sacrifice, that was the price, but you wastefully abuse it. You just aim to take Zilant’s place.”

“Yes, I do. And more, so much more.”

Spit lands on Volch’s face. And as rage blazes through growing cracks in Tugarin’s shrouding a glimpse unfurls. Generation after generation of the same predictable baseness and stupidity, of potentials, of everything withering, disappointment turning into boredom and distaste. Fading cobwebs.

“I’ve had enough of lowly mindless servitude to their blind inferiority.

Of degradation, of hunger and denied sleep and aching knees in stale dark corridors, discipline, discipline, maddening discipline and repeated nonsense that Didn’t. Make. Sense. Dusty faces that should be shredded to pieces. Fading cobwebs.

“Of imposed stale limits when means to rule and transcend are at my hands.”

Fading cobwebs. And then radiance. Rising. Stalwart. Unlimited. Fulfilling. For a moment he feels he could willingly disintegrate in the magnificence.

“World doesn’t care, only those at the top like to make others think so and behave. And some of them are so laughable. Godly grace is there to be taken and I can and want and will have it.”

Only for a moment. Volch sneers.

“Using this?”

“How different it is from what they do?”

Because… Because… He is just playing at it while they are what they are, even without it, even without human offerings, always pleased to get more, but don’t demand, don’t need to demand, that’s how deep-rooted they are in the world and its workings. All the while no one would miss Tugarin, should he disappear, rather breathe a sigh of relief. _Mhm, mhm… And how did they get there?_

”And I could have stripped you of everything and instead I elevated you. But this foolish insolence marks you as undeserving and traitorous. I will not let that slide. Your duty is to nothing else but me.”

“Not this one.”

He expects the punitive strike, he’s already positioned his hands nearby, wrapping stray strands of magic around his fingers and under his skin up his arms and now his palms close around the sceptre too and yank. He feels the edge of the sceptre cut him underneath his chin, his blood sizzling on the ablaze scale, but that’s all. Flash of hot light narrowed into a ray flies past his right temple and hits wall. It is blinding, but his own eyes are lit up with might surging through steel handle and immune. Spell released depletes Tugarin’s power slightly and surprise unbalances him for a half a heartbeat. Volch tightens his grip and braces himself.

He senses he cannot wrestle the sceptre out from Tugarin’s hands and it is no surprise, but he intends to hold it until he gets acknowledgement. _One thing, one single thing…_ He must be able to keep it. It’s been a month and a half and he’s grown more than in years. He must hold his position, fight to stand-still, drawing from the power of dragon well as much as Tugarin can.

“Ask something else. Make me pay. I am not assisting in their sacrifice. You will leave me out of that shit.”

He can cede thousand smaller and bigger things, look away, or silently watch if ordered to or even do all sorts of deeds if ordered to, but this is the line he is not going to cross. It is not natural compassion that Mikula or Ilja might feel, so easy to follow. No, Volch had to draw it consciously and that’s why it must be guarded.

He’s been digging it into granite with his bare fingers and polishing it with his every breath and dedicated himself to it come hell or high water and it is sacred and it is his and it will be respected in this partnership or it is no partnership at all. That’s where he can stand strong and burn with green flame against smoky purple-black.

Dark eyes narrow, face contorts in snarl.

“You don’t get to pick what order you do and don’t follow.”

Magic jolts up, heating the dark metal to repel invasive touch. _It’s mine too…_ He sends his own wave, fire against fire. Steel vibrates with strain, Zyrnitra’s scale with agitation. It hurts, but nothing matters as long, as he is connected to the source which holds harm back. He seeks out silver song, now stormy, but still harmonious, always harmonious… _Just keep balance…_ He closes his eyes.

“Leave me… Out…”

Crisp winds atop mountain, woods thinned and bared as if after windstorm sway bellow and dusty malachite shards lie around and beneath rests hard spotty volcanic rock, green flames in its veins, asleep but alive. He can feel it through his feet, in his feet, unshakable and part of the bedrock. Volch outstretches his arms towards pillar of silver lightning madly swirling in front of him to tame it and drink in its power. Then it stirs and everything shudders.

“I am your master.”

The declaration echoes both in physical world and mental realm. He finds the speaker opposite himself. Dry and bare and yellowish, towering rubble pierced and inlayed with spotless black ore, yawning with black chasm, bursting with black smoke and purple-crimson sparks, the form of a winged snake, something that should have been gone claimed instead and twisted further. Its epicentre, focal point drawing him closer, dragging him down to crawl like a worm is a figure grasping the silver tempest too. _So it seems._ _Just in what meaning of the word, Tugarin? Show your true colours._

“I am not doing it…”

This is his line. Volch shakes off the pull. In time to deflect hail of sparks, summoning wall of green flames to swallow them and then he grabs descending silver lash and pulls on it like reins. His breath is shaky and clenched jaws ache, but other man’s gasp is something to savour. Not for long.

“I own you!”

Next blow tears through captured lash like a dusty gale, flattens and nearly douses the flames. It pushes him a step back. _So this one indeed… But that’s not what I signed up for._

“I am not…”

Is his line. He digs his heels in and leans forward. Blinding gale hammers, but he closes his eyes, closes his fists, holding tight and spreading his arms to the sides slowly. Then he pushes the gathered force forth in three torrents of lava with malachite halo. He hears a delicious yelp and the gale falters and stops. Green fire rises again.

“Obey!”

Before he can grab swirling silver again a whole cloud of fire comes is way and for a moment the sight takes him back to when Zilant’s fire hit upon them Suwar and the heat roared, but men behind him caught in it screamed even louder. He bites himself to shake it off and narrows his eyes. Nowhere to dodge, he must weather it. Forearms brought together he builds crystalline shielding. Blaze hits hard. Down on one knee, another step back.

“I… Won’t…”

His line. Shield is melting and cracking rapidly, but not quickly enough. Rivulets of decomposed magic and rivulets of sweat. He takes a deep breath, draws from vastness, sees the membrane spreading and then pushes. It is pair of the largest dragon wings that blows the barrage of fire away. He squares his shoulder and malachite emission dances around restlessly.

“Obey!”

He cannot get up though. Next attack comes like shattering earthquake and burning downpour. How can he…? This is his… It is the silver pillar, superior to territory borders, he has the control and combined with his own core it rips wind, it rips malachite flames, it rips rock. Both knees and one more step back.

“I…”

Line. He grasps for silver to make it his own, before it obliterates everything, but he hears the terrible creak of splintering wood and high tone of shattered crystals again and cannot focus. _Just renew balanc…_

“Obey!”

The force is too much, fire too much, pain… And before he might melt his hands to the handle, baser instinct kicks in. With scream he lets go. Connection ripped apart, the sort of sharp deafening sound searing through his whole being, vision of mountain shattered and as control of higher power bleeds out, damage comes crashing down, scalding and vile. _I lost…_ Fleets through his mind in dismay as he falls to the ground and barely notices hard stone, because somewhere else he keeps falling and his hands… His hands… Next moment he forgets about hands.

“You fool!”

Brutal kick to his stomach knocks breath out of him. Gasping he curls on himself and when attempt to scramble away fails he tries to at least tense up under next few blows. Waves of pain are nauseating.

“You unbehaved brat! Did you really think you could resist? After all these weeks you somehow conceived you could deny me anything?”

“Me who could control great Zilant like some slobbering hound, me who was old when that spoilt petty princess dumped you from her cunt, me before whose mastery your father trembled. How blind one must be for that?! I clearly overestimated your faculties and went too soft on your thankless self-absorbed ass. I’ll make you see and properly value the honour I bestowed upon you before.”

He wants to space out, flee from physical pain into his head like he did in past, like he did after being locked up for unpermitted attempt at ritual as young captive. Sanctuary of mist, wild sea and vast starry sky filled with frosty rainbow and silver song of Zirnytra.

But there is no escape from Tugarin. He chases him there, shreds the tranquillity, turns northern lights and mist into foul fumes that choke and deafen and bind him in coils of burning ash, slowly inch after inch, jaws tearing and crushing tender flesh and thoughts again and again. Volch claws back. He knows pain, he can bear it and he does for a long time. Seeks out silver trail. _You don’t deserve to hear her song, dragonling…_ His hissing voice eats through his mind like acid. Leaving behind aching silence. And with the melody of magic fainter and fainter, something else fills up space. Darkness swarms with whispers and he is bare and weak and if they reach him, when they reach... That’s when he truly feels panic. _Don’t take it away!_ He can bear pain, as long as demanded, but this… It is too much together.

“Enough! Please... Enough... I will! I am sorry. I will do it! Just…”

“Oh, yes, you will. But before that you must pay for your effrontery.”

Tugarin does want punishment as much as exercise of power. Death is for dabblers, he can turn everything else into punishment. The pain continues, the pain increase and Zirnytra’s silver stays away. It is too much and when Volch’s body shuts down it continues in his mind.

It is dark here. Walled up darkness of dragon’s insides, darkness of cells and lairs he knows and darkness of caves where serpent’s body aches. There is only so much escape in sleep when one is imprisoned. And even less when it’s filled with nightmares and tormenting memories. Darkness presses, tight, deep, churning, choking seeping into every pore, colouring everything. Tugarin wants to torment him with it, with echo of being swallowed and echo of activity and of something deeper still. And it does hurt, all the more for anticipation.

The thing is… Volch knows so much more about it than him. To take in and be taken in… It is his and ingrained deeper than refusal to slaughter people in the name of a dragon. He curls up and endures sinking deeper. Something waits there. It shifts and everything stirs. Not just there, around him and this is its core.

_Welcome at last._

Like a coil of even blacker sludge, dense and oily and sticky. Somehow he knows it tastes bitter.

_Who are you?_

It reaches out, shadowy smudge dissolving into surrounding miasma.

_Past… Future… Comeuppance… A wellspring waiting for an opening. He calls on me to break you, but I don’t serve. I call first. He can affect you this way, but not control._

It gingerly brushes edges of his form, then starts climbing up. He doesn’t have mind to resist.

_Affect in what way?_

He feels the viscous touch on his lips. It does taste bitter.

_I can make you colder. So cold you won’t feel anything anymore. You might become unstoppable. We._

He thinks of rock hard frozen forms, shrivelled by pull of ice and the ugly way in which they crumble afterwards, of frostbitten fingers you could use instead of knives that have to cut off lest the whole body decays.

_Thawing could destroy me and I would have to avoid it forever._

_Then avoid it. Turn a prison into an armour and wearing it walk out. Now!_

Caress turns into pressure. Needles on skin and push against mouth. It is an order and one that feels assuring and natural. Just part the lips and gulp like a drowning man… He presses them together. He hoped for more, wants more, this whole quest is an attempt to get more and he is not one to give up easily.

_I’ll… Think about it._

He swats at creeping icy tendrils and they pause, surprised.

_Ah, there is a difference. You went on your own, placed it on an altar and you were awake. You have a say in this. Think then, my bony boy, my bound boy, think… But I won’t be chased away. I must be faced._

He wakes up to shocking cold and panic of something unbreathable filling his mouth and nose. He jerks up and coughs out water and immediately regrets it. There is colourful tugging of searing and dull and constricting pain that is an aftermath of pain, mind filled with haze and a confusing ineligible glimpse of black depth and frost that keeps slipping away and he doesn’t have capacity to chase it, because that pain… That pain! Why did oblivion have to end? Silver melody nears, finally back, what a relief… And with it Tugarin’s face appears. 

“Step out of line again and I won’t show the same mercy a second time. Understood?”

His throat feels raw despite water, but he must answer, he must. If he didn’t…

“Yes… Master.”

He rasps. Tugarin smiles. Then wrinkles his nose and straightens again. As he is walking away, he calls to someone else.

“Wash him and dress his hands.”

It is Išora. She is pale, her grip on bundles of fabric and pail filled with water white-knuckled and her lips quiver a bit.

“Not… As bad… As looks.”

He closes his eyes. This is inadequate for a princess. But she is a hostage here and treated as such. A captive to captive, favour for favour…

“Cheer up… We’re even.”

“Oh shut it!”

Indignant. Too dark sense humour for her. But at least she spoke. He gladly obeys. It is her who breaks the silence later, when she surveys her work and shakes her head over his state.

“Why did you challenge him like that?”

She is fretting, her annoyance ringing louder with incredulity and worry. What can he say to that? Just what? What did he expect?

“Because I am a foolish brat.”

.

(Human sacrifice time. Also, Volch drugs the victims with something, so that they are not aware of what is going on and don’t feel much fear and pain.)

_I am sorry._ He thinks. _Your “sorry” is useless._

He cuts. Blood spurts forth in faltering rhythm, soaks bandages on his hands, warm and viscous and soothing on still tender flesh – cursed relief. One after another, he catches some blood into bronze bowl and the rest spills on the ritual rock and on the ground and on the lifeless bodies.

Last one is Šumat. His eyes are glazed over like those of a boy who couldn’t tear his eyes from a corpse of his mother. And just as with that boy, recognition sparks in them when Volch closes on him with a bloodied knife. He startles and tries to get away, movements sludgy and panic rising even through haze of intoxication. Volch stops him and holds still. Deep breath, caress about which he isn’t sure whether it is meant to comfort the child or him. It doesn’t work. Then he slits the lamblike throat His grip is firm if painfully stiff and his heart is hollow.

He hands the bowl with blood of twelve sacrifices to Tugarin and then looks down and closes his eyes, arms limp at his sides, knife forgotten, staying on his knees among all those people killed by him. Silhouettes swim behind his eyelids.

“Drink.”

Volch’s eyes snap open. He looks at the bowl held in front of his face and leans back in mute refusal.

“You must too. This is shared ritual to two dragons and their masters.”

He presses his lips together.

“Drink.”

Compelling colours his vision silver, drapes around his wrists and jaw. He should fight it. He is able to fight it on other days. His hands rise up and take the vessel, tilt it to his lips. He expects to be nauseated. He wishes he was. Metallic tang of that faintly warm clogging substance shouldn’t be so welcome on his tongue. There shouldn’t be almost immediate feeling of being awakened, dragon magic in the air singing louder and quicker.

And then the ritual is over and then he gets up and then he finds himself on the bank of Red river, which is black and white in the glow of Chors and cold, so cold. _You could be colder still._

He thinks of attacked village and his shouted name and of captives whom he herded into Kokšaga and of girls among them and one boys that later trashed under the knife in his hand. Something hollow doesn’t go away. Only seeps into every vein and muscle and marrow of his bones and it hardens and turns up sharp edges and hooked spikes. Father’s last words ring in his head. _So not now. Maybe in two years’ time. And maybe later. But you will._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This sacrificial topic is difficult. Various sources speak of practise of human sacrifice in Kievan Rus (just as among Vikings/Varangians) before Christendom. Now the book series that inspires this work diverges a bit. All depicted Kievan sacrifices are those of animals, Volch and his Thirty don’t engage in bloody rituals to worship Goryn, man-eating cast is firmly in the cubicle of villains, people left and right condemn that fine captured maids are to be made into food of a dragon instead of being sold, Svjatoslav tells emir Ahmed he prefers Muslim like him as an ally to pagans of Suwar, cause what those worship there “are not gods, but demons”… There is one instance coming closer – in third book with rows of surrendered Khazarian soldiers that would slow them down and couldn’t be trusted Svjatoslav orders their death and adds it will be also a gesture of thanks to gods, but it is still framed as sorta kinda Agincourt situation.


	10. Chapter 10

(I am thinking Svjat’s POV as he receives Ilja with Kazan messenger who talks about escapees alerting them to northern shenanigans and bringing anonymous scrolls in old Ityl script detailing plans and forces of Cheremisi. It does sound like serious threat, Svjatoslav persuades Bragi Halvorsson into going. Then Tugarin is mentioned, Mikula does his little wailing performance and Svjat tells him off and internally adds he does identify with the sentiment, but cannot quite afford it, he needs to focus on keeping all this together, focus on the problem at hand and Mikula’s open grief makes it more difficult, so could he just… Not remind him… Right now? It is contagious… And then our Kazan guy drops that actually grapevine has it that Vseslajevič is with Drakovič. Silence as within tomb follows. Then “Explain” and he does and it just goes downhill and dark when bogatyrs ask to go, Svjatoslav… Agrees more quickly? Long silence and then “Ok, you, you, you, investigate it.”. Basically it needs to start the same and get different after divergent element is introduced and I want Svjat to feel that blow and wonder how it came to be and what exactly it is, have so many harrowing questions, but also to stay Svjat, who is tough as nails.)

.

(Tugarin through astral travel finds out about Bolghar sending an army to deal with Cheremisi and informs Vargan. Volch is present. Volch is afraid, because Tugarin haven’t found about the missives, but well, clearly escapees spoke and this disaster is thus Volch’s fault.)

“Well, since the cat is out of bag, there isn’t reason to hold back in raids. Season is high, both for harvest and for merchants wrapping up their travels before rains and cold comes. On the roads between targets Cheremis settlements can be visited to prepare at least a bit for coing scourge. Hide valuables, give instructions, plant traps… Captured resources that are not relevant to maintenance and for fight can be exchanged for quality steel and other gear you so severely lack. Helgard still answers to Bragi who is now riding alongside Svjatoslav, but Ferthskalla has no such ties, in fact will welcome opportunity for more trade.”

He goes on and on until he runs out of ideas. Vargan is having this surprised expression with raised eyebrows. Wisemen and other authorities in the war room exchange looks and murmur. How Tugarin looks or what is he doing Volch doesn’t know because he is avoiding looking at him.

“That’s a lot if ideas… But it could work.”

When discussions cease and people start departing, Volch wants to sneak away with the crowd to join in the preparations.

“Stop, Volch.”

Definite like strike of a sword. It’s not a tone of voice one can argue with.

“Turn to me.”

He wraps his fingers around dragon tooth at his side and obeys. Drakovič is leaning against wall behind his seat and tapping his fingers on the handle of his sceptre.

“You do have some resourcefulness when it comes to salvaging a situation. But it won’t change the fact we both know whose fault this all is.”

His heartbeat speeds up again and he feels cold sweat break on his skin. His body feels distant and that’s why he doesn’t bat an eye.

“Of course not.”

Tugarin’s stare glints dangerously.

“And what that means.”

_Everything has its price…_ Tugarin stands up, sceptre faintly glowing and making all the shadows sharper.

“Come.”

Volch does.

.

It is deep night and Išora is too sore and shaken to fall asleep. Vargan decided sharing his frustration with his wife would improve his mood and he was very open about his woes. It apparently worked, for he is sprawled nearby, slack and snoring loudly. She on the other hand stares into darkness, stiff but for occasional tremor as recollection of one detail or another resurfaces. Sitting curled up on the floor probably isn’t the best idea, but she couldn’t bear staying beneath heavy smothering covers so close to Vargan and the coldness is some relief on the bruises.

Just when she thinks she might be finally blacking out there is assault of another echo – how she cried out when iron fists gripped her wrists with such a force she thought her bones would break, for which he slapped her hard enough to make her nose bleed. She clamps a hand over her mouth to suppress a whine and then she notices, it is not her voice that she hears. She frowns and crouches, breath held still, but save her captor’s snoring there is silence. Just when she is about to exhale, thinking her grip on reality slipping, it is broken again though. Sound muffled and soon supressed, ghostlike, but real. Not behind the fur covering the entrance to chieftain’s bedchamber, not in any room next to it, definitely not outside. Elsewhere. Deeper?

She hesitates, then presses her ear to the ground and waits. It feels like forever, but eventually there is cascade sounding like pleading only to be cut off and then she feels... Something. Travel through the base of the house, cold and slithery and enormous and when it reaches her also biting. With small yelp she jumps up and wants to run and run far away and then wash for hours until her skin stops crawling with what must have been magic of that terrible warlock. But she hears a wail and instead drops back down. That voice, that voice… She recognizes it and has to clamp a hand over her mouth again. Cannot help but wide awake and frozen in horror keep listening to it for the rest of night and golden rays of morning sun find her teary-eyed.


	11. Chapter 11

(Bogatyrs on the boat talk the situation – possibilities and past and of course also tension between them and Bragi’s varangians who has been rather dissatisfied with conduct in Bolghar and basically that bit illustrates that Svjat’s new territory is a bit shaky, so that stuff on the north looks more dangerous)

.

(Tugarin has stalvart news of finding third shard’s location and that they will depart soon. Volch is like hurray and you know what, let’s mess up whole Cheremis’ deal. And it is Išora faking her death with Volch’s help. Since Tugarin would recognize use of death-like-sleep glyph, Volch actually uses the glyph with another one to find concoction that mirrors the effect and then uses that medicine and everyone falls for it. Tugarin is worried about keeping Perman loyalty now that they don’t have a hostage and kinda failed “their trust” and Volch proposes they keep the passing away as secret as possible at least till the clash with Helgardians is over, so whatever is the standard funeral practise among Cheremisi, it is not carried out, they just leave her in the cave system of Kokšaga, Volch prepares horse with rations for her and when Išora later wakes up, she sets out to her home to dissuade Permans from aiding Vargan. That they can pretend to be helpful, get going, and then strike in the back.)

.

(Tugarin announces Volch is to stay behind and win.)

“Failure is not an option. For either of you.”

It is sadistic. And sufficient in making sure Volch will do his best to ensure victory, where he might otherwise try the opposite from afar. It’s not a passing secret affair to hide and cover one’s tracks. He cannot catch up with him later to retrieve third piece of scale together and lie about results of the battle when Tugarin can any time let his soul fly over to see the consequences.

.

(In privacy Volch asks to go north with him, that Tugarin can take his word back any time, so could he just tell Cheremisi they are on their own, Volch will do ANYTHING, if only he doesn’t have to be in this fight. And that is tempting, but no, nope, not gonna happen. Instead it is fealty as farewell.)

“I hate you.”

“I know. I am not asking for your love, but loyalty. Swear to me your allegiance, Volch.”

He stopped counting times he was asked to do that. Row of words and gestures, string of pledges, winding, branching and sticky like spider-silk. He bows his head.

“I follow my master and my master only. I question merely to learn and obey in everything, deed and thought.”

Silky voice and white strands of hair falling into his line of vision.

“And who is your master?”

Breath smelling of mugwort and just a hint of smoke wafts over his cheeks. He must mean it. Tugarin always recognizes. Volch looks up, meets those demanding eyes that are dark like swallowing chasms and lined with teeth. He whispers.

“You.”

_Yes. You hate me and yet. You. Are. Mine. It is greater triumph and greater power than bond of affection._ Volch doesn’t argue with him.


	12. Chapter 12

(Tugarin leaves, preparations start and Volch hastily asks Permans to not participate. At all. Opposite of Koščej’s reasoning from books. I might squeeze in some negotiating liaisons between Kievans and Permans too. And some squablling with Helgardians.)

.

(Battle, is Volch’s POV and I am going with Slovak version where Bragi stays on his hill and is overrun not by Permans but by Mr Spellchucker. I do feel I should change the strategy a bit more beside pulling out Permans since Volch is there trying to make it certain but pricey. I have to come up with it either for it to happen or for Volch to propose it and be dismissed by Vargan who sticks to his own judgment and all he wants from Vseslajevič is obedient heavy-lifting. Also, he is done with spears and just double-wields knives, a little nod to Azyren and also to Koščej from the third book with his claws. They didn’t come out of nowhere, ok? Anyway…)

.

(Kievan investigators/rescue group – Iľja, Jegor, Mikula, Aljoša, Suchan, Danilo, Kolyvan, Samson (last surviving goryniči – twins Borovej and Divljan from Polotsk died along the way in this verse too) had to flee from battlefield and finally catch a break)

“How is the hut, Samson?”

“Empty and abandoned. Roof in the north corner leaks and I found a ferret nest too, but it is a good shelter.”

“Well, that’s it, we spend the night here and figure out a new plan. Run we might have had to, but we’re not done here yet.”

Jegor decides. Other men groan in relief they can finally relax and catch their breath. They saunter to the building in question.

“But we need also a guard-post in case Cheremisi would track us here despite rain.”

Einar sighs and hands reins of his horse to Ilja, who is standing next to him.

“I’ll find some cover with a good view of surroundings. Just wait with assigning shifts for when I return.”

Ilja inclines his head in what he hopes is show of affability, not quite sure what to say. Blonde Varangian quirks his lips and walks away. He is the only one left from the group of Helgardians that was fleeing together with bogatyrs. The rest got killed when they suddenly stopped behind to confront pack of Cheremisi closing on them. It probably saved the rest of them from being caught later.

Einar would be most likely dead too if Ilja upon noticing their absence didn’t ride back and join him. He was the last man standing and losing ground fast. Two men back to back had much better chances even against twice and some more number of foes than one against five. This way not a single pursuer survived to continue the hunt and they were able to hide the bodies.

Also Ilja couldn’t turn his back on him after this puzzling decision to buy them time despite gnashing their teeth at each other not so long before. He stares at his retreating form until he is jolted out of his reverie by Danilo’s sombre voice.

“So it’s true.”

He turns away from the forest to look at his brothers. Only now he notices how grave silence caused by something else than weariness has settled on their group, dark clouded scowls, glances exchanged and avoided, tense lines of their mouths. Suchan nods in rare show of agreement with the younger sharp-tongued man.

“Vseslajevič is alive. And a traitor.”  
  
“We don’t know that yet. Just that he’s alive.”

Mikula cuts in indignantly, but there is a bit of uncertainty in his voice. Ilja can see he is trying to convince himself as much as them. He is frowning at no one in particular, his mind searching for something that could be fluttering just outside his reach and set the mess right, because surely there must be something, he can almost feel it.

Kolyvan shakes his head.

“What did that look like to you? He went for our throats.”

“Words “Their lives belong to me” don’t sound very non-threatening.”

Aljoša remarks uneasily. He too isn’t sure what to think of all this.

“But... He...”

Mikula stammers and Ilja decides to step in.

“With that claim he chased others from us, but didn’t go for our throats himself. In fact told us to leave. And I am pretty sure that those spells behind our backs were not attacks but covers.”

Jegor, until now silent, lifts his head and scratches his chin thoughtfully.

“It might have been a ploy. We haven’t fared much better on the run than we would have on the battlefield. I have to wonder if he perhaps didn’t get us exactly where he wanted to.”

“That would be quite a rightful worry.”

Wafts from the shadows all around them with audible smirk. They all jump and whirl around.

.

Volch slips out of hiding, magic unfurling from around his form and the horse by his side. Disguising his steed as other similarly shaped animal and himself as other person was nice trick, but disguising them as shade and undergrowth is whole new level and doing it successfully brings him fleeting smile despite less than pleasant occasion. Once the bogatyrs notice his position, they instantly shift into their battle formation in beautifully perfect accord and reach for their weapons. Something in his chest constricts just as strongly as when he saw them for the first time.

“But I’m not here to bring you any harm, so put away the weapons, please.”

No one follows his request, not even Mikula. Volch isn’t surprised. Jegor narrows his eyes.

“Why should we trust you? You joined forces with the enemy, you attacked us just hours earlier.”

“Did I harm any of you? Trust me, I could have already…”

Volch points out.

“I am here to explain few things.”

“Like why you betrayed Kiev?”

Aljoša bites out.

“I did not!”

And insistence in his voice is all the sharper for the fact he can see that in a way he might have. In summer he mixed lies with truth and what he prevented then he made happen later all the same. But this fight… He could have run to the other camp any moment, instead he ensured Cheremis victory. And for the first time with as high collateral as possible to at least make it pricey and weaken them. He betrayed more than Kiev. And it’s not the end yet.

“I didn’t want to. I tried to protect it. Still am. From far greater danger than Cheremis crows. Just let me speak.”

“Continue then.”

“I was defeated in Suwar. That is true. I had no way of knowing Ilja would manage to mortally wound Zilant, good job there, man…”

Ilja doesn’t light up like in his summer fantasies, hardly could under these circumstances and now Volch regrets trying it.

“So when Drakovič offered to spare me if I submit to him and help him with his plans I saw it as the only way to prevent him from burning our forces. I arranged being swallowed so that with me in Zilant’s jaws Tugarin couldn’t order him to breathe fire on anyone. Zilant’s dead, but that didn’t make Tugarin less of threat. With my service or without it, he is on the road to attain even greater power than two pieces of Zirnytra’s scale provide him with. For a start a third one. And the dragon that comes with it – Rudrog and also what he guards.”

“Rudrog? That Rudrog? Guardian of the bridge over Smorodina? That’s fairytale stu…”

Danilo blurts out and the rest don’t appear particularly credulous either.

“Don’t look at me like that. If I wanted to lie to you, I’d choose something easier to believe in. It is true. Why do you think he didn’t stay in Kokshaga? Hardly out of fear when even in his absence Cheremisi defeated you. If anything he could have made the victory more decisive. So just imagine how much more rewarding must be what he set out for. He is mighty, smart and vile enough to succeed and once he will, he will retaliate. He will crush everyone in his path and those who landed a blow on him before with special dedication.”

“So you decided to join a winning side.”

_Again._ That’s what Jegor thinks and doesn’t say aloud and Volch can see how the older man’s memories resurface. Of subduing a boy with scary green eyes in flaming ruins, of the way he kept seeing reflection of those ruins in them as the malachite sceptre was taken from him, rope tied around his neck, hair cut, as he was marched east and made serve killers of his family, punished and rewarded and punished and rewarded and kept close, because enemies must be kept closer than friends and who has more reason to be an enemy than the one you stole. How the reflection remained and yet those eyes seemed cold, colder and more difficult to read with every year.

Jegor thought that despite Helga’s distrust Volch just like many other captives forgot past and grew to harbour real loyalty towards Kiev, Ruriks and družina, but now can too easily see how it could be just pragmatism, just learnt indifference that lends itself to switching sides over and over. _You think it’s in my character, you think it makes sense and you cannot get exactly angry nor guilty, only resigned and suspicious and almost relieved that it was finally revealed._ Volch realizes he would prefer Jegor’s usual outrage, such as when he objected to being roped into a duel or having to bear unholy magic.

“And now you want to sway us as well.”

Because cold fiery eyes or not, the boy, the young man always tried to hold onto some people and take care of those chosen. Shared benefits and stronger base and spark of human feeling. Volch supposes that is credit of sort. He shakes his head.

“No. I am trying to make him think that so that I could get close enough to backstab him.”

_And reap in his stead too, of course. I poured my effort into it too after all._ Jegor frowns.

“That’s not bogatyr way.”

_Why do they have to be so difficult?_ Volch scoffs.

“Oh, because that one worked so well the last time… If you forgot, he got killed three thirds of us when we attacked Zilantaw. Three thirds. Without a scratch of his own. And that was just a taste of his power. You have no idea what he’s capable of, what he could do to you for bothering him second time…”

_What he’d do to me…_

“No, this is no place for brave stances and brandished swords, for strength of arms and tightness of regiment. I must worm my way into his favour, leech of him - his weaknesses, his strengths, his strategies, his magic, all I can and then outsmart him.”

Suchan takes a step forward with sceptical expression. _What now?_

“That’s a nice tale and we would like to believe it, but it would be easier, if you had some proof to your words.”

“A proof…”

He says flatly. _They still…_ Something inside him cracks.

“And who do you think sent the missive?!”

He snaps.

“Who do you think arranged for Permans to abandon Cheremisi?! That probably fell from the sky, cause such fortune always comes to glorious bogatyrs. My ass…”

Mikula and Aljoša flinch, few more take a step back and venom pouring into his words feels good, so he keeps going.

“That’s not how it works. I had to toil for it, carefully, slowly. I had to risk and then pay and… And… But you take things for granted and simplistic, you don’t bother to think, just assume and charge and get in the way, merrily righteous and so blind, so, so… Obtuse!”

Only then he catches himself. _I am sounding like him._ He takes a deep breath and regains his composure, swiping coils of frustration and magic leashed back.

“I am sorry.”

He says in much calmer voice.

“That was harsh. And your suspicions and confusion are understandable and reasonable.”

“Hypothetically you could have found out about the message and Permans could have changed the side through no meddling of yours, so you at least claim it now to get some use out of it.”

Jegor muses. His grumpiness, righteousness and dismissiveness and odd Christian convictions tend to overshadow it, have been especially in last years, but it seems to have waned and once again he shows he can be surprisingly thoughtful and on-point when he puts his mind to it. Of course he can, he has spent decades serving Helga and as first among bogatyrs. Volch nods.

“But who else would have a reason to do it, if not me? The escapees? They wouldn’t have access to plans of Cheremis leadership. I wanted to improve your chances further, by depriving them of an ally. Perman princess was in Kokshaga against her will, I helped, she returned the favour in the way we both found satisfying.”

“Then why did you remain supporting Cheremisi throughout the whole battle? For what purpose did you single us out rather than aid the whole army? It just doesn’t make sense, Vseslajevič.”

“I chose your bunch over the rest of troops because I couldn’t protect all. I was expecting to depart with Drakovič, but on the eve of the clash he ordered me to stay and help Cheremisi and return to him only once they succeed. Winning here was a test that I passed. When I reunite with him now, he will have to rely on me, I’ll be there for the retrieval and I’ll be there when the opportunity to strike emerges.”

“Alright. What is our part in your scheme supposed to be?”

Ilja asks.

“Staying out of it.”

Mikula throws his hands up.

“But then you will be all alone for this. If he is so powerful as you say… This is Vlchinec all over again. You’ve bitten off too much and you are not looking left…”

“You cannot help me! He would notice you and your involvement would lessen his trust in me.”

_And then he would…_ Volch’s hands shake. He balls them into fists to stop it. _No, do not think of it now._

“I just need more time.”

_There is so much to lose and so much more get… I simply… I cannot stop now…_ And they could ruin it.

“So you are going to suck up to him and let him do to you and make you do whatever he wants, while we sit on our hands for Mokoš knows how long?”

“Yes.”

“This… This is not you, Volch!”

It flashes before his eyes, all the times he knelt, sore, breathless and determined, awe at charm cast sweeping away everything else, rows of men to do also his biding awing him even if sword hung above his neck, talks like ice in his veins and crystaline clarity in his brain, deep-seeping triumph each time he made Tugarin or his past superiors do something that he, Volch, wanted, lurking away from everyone, frame-up, rage and bloodied dent in a tree, hollowness and bloodied cut in a lamb-like throat, dreams of flying and dreams of jaws, a viper coiling on a warm breast and biting cause that’s what vipers do…

“Is it not?”

The tone cutting and a bit raw. _You’ve been close, so close to me in previous year, Mikula. Enjoying laughs, admiring cleverness and also looking affronted every time I went along with something unsavoury and perhaps I tried to add more care because of it. But it is my nature and I could forget the consideration without you, I believe I could, I’ve already started. Think, just think for a moment, what you do and don’t know of me. What do I know…_

Large ginger shakes his head in exasperated worry (and hint of plea).

“You are more.”

Volch blinks.

“I don’t doubt your determination to single-handedly carry out buckets of shit others would back off from when you think you have to.”

That’s one way of looking at it.

“Even too many of them for better or worse. Too caught up in it.”

Brown eyes speak with such earnestness he would read them even without telepathy. _I know that part of you. And I know, what I am to you. I know my effect on that part. It won’t chase me away precisely because I am to keep it in check._

“But you are also the best man I know in finding ways how to not have to and one who believes in brotherhood so much, he makes others too. Let the later help you accomplish the former, please.”

_It’s why you liked me around and why I liked it too. I love what you can be when I ground you, what we are together._ He presses his lips together for they might tremble otherwise.

“I lost one already.”

His Thirty were all dead now and their faith in him proven wrong.

“I will not again.”

“Volch…”

Mikula moves forward with intention to ground him a bit more literary and that would be too much. He needs this distance and resolve. Volch gestures with his hand, silver sizzling between fingers and turning air in front of him into dense honey, wrapping around limbs like chains and slowing him down, slowing him down to actual stop. Mikula looks rather hurt and also a bit spooked. _Yes, it is wise to be afraid…_ The thought is bitter and barbed. Volch’s heart races as he steps back, inhales shakily and rises his voice. Compelling in it is hasty and a bit off kilter, but fuelled by potent insistence.

“The best way you can help is by being reasonable, being cautious and staying out of this. Hide in the cottage for a time being or head to Bolghar and Svjatoslav immediately…”

It always helps to provide something to choose from, it distracts from how forced it actually is.

“…away from this cold damp enemy-ridden hell-hole where you’d just waste your time…”

Appeal to comfort shouldn’t hurt either.

“…and wait till I sort it out on my own. This is beyond you.”

Spell cast, expressions positively dazed, he backs into mist and shadowy foliage. Just before disappearing he turns back one more time.

“Take care, brothers.”

He mutters because he doesn’t want his last words to them be those of hex and then he disappears.

This dealt with he weaves an illusion of one or two bruises and cuts and some fresher blood-splatters, checks on the water surface for sufficiently feral look, like echo of previous frenzy or something of that sort to give Vargan and others some ideas on how he dealt with the men, he wanted alive for himself. They shouldn’t see a point in looking for them after such display.

He nicks also a handsomely sharp, flexible and well-balanced steel sword and dagger from a corpse of some Varangian, so much more comforting in his hand than substitute weapons, he has carried until now. He drinks in the flicker of fright in Cheremis chieftain’s eyes when he appears out of blue like more of a forest demon than that man could ever hope to muster for all his playing at being Kugurak.

All is prepared for him to set out north on the dawn of the next day and leave this macabre affair behind. He is weary and matters seem a little neater than they’ve been for a long time and he lies in the hallowed cave, his fingers trailing over surface of a dragon fang, imagining blood and acrid juices streaming across its surface. Why, just why he cannot fall asleep?

.

Einar is crouched behind lush branches of a young rowan shrub and watches how heated exchange ends with sparkle of silver light and magic-laced words uttered. The intruder climbs onto his horse, takes one last look back and then disappears into forest the opposite direction of Einar’s hiding place. He waits and clutches damp heavy smelling twigs for few more moments, then leaves protection of a red-berried bush.

“Folks?”

Kievans in front of him have slightly vacant expressions.

“Sigmarsson…”

Muromec murmurs. Though it is flattering that he remembers Einar’s name, this is a bit low bar.

“Are you alright?”

“Yes… Yes, of course.”

Unfocused laxness slowly gives way to purposefulness.

“We have a plan of action so all is fine.”

Commander of the bunch, Jegor Svjatogor, answers. Einar rises an eyebrow sceptically.

“You do?”

They nod sagely. And their hulking leader continues.

“We go back to Bolgar. Immediately. The sooner the better.”

And then to his bewilderment they start to get back on their horses.

“Woohoho…. Now that’s a bit…”

They ignore his protests.

“Volch is right. It is reasonable.”

“And cautious.”

Einar steps into Ilja’s path.

“Wait! You wanted to stay here and plan a new strike.”

“Did we?”

“Yes! You said you might had had to run, but that you’re not done yet.”

“Well, we reconsidered.”

“No, you didn’t! That sorcerer you chased and wanted to bring back either saved or punished has ordered you to do so.”

Broad blonde frowns, his fists balling and something flickering and then drowning again in his blue eyes.

“He put you under fucking spell.”

_And pretty shoddy at that._ He snaps his fingers in front of Muromec’s face for frustration and lack of better idea.

“Wake up!”

The younger man leans back and swats at Einar’s hand, but then stops dead in his tracks, looks wide-eyed at a Varangian in front of him for a moment and exclaims.

“By Perun’s axe!”

_Finally._

“Brothers.”

“Oh gods… Yes.”

He looks around at the rest of Kievans, recognition dawning on them too, as if with one link broken whole chain fell apart. They shake their heads, back away from their horses, one or two even staggering.

“Thanks gods…”

Einar exhales.

“Not that return might be not a good idea, but this was plain creepy. And riding right off…”

“Thank you… But how did you…?”

“I found a good spot just few yards away and when I was returning to tell you I found you speaking with him, so I hid there.

He gestures over his shoulder to the rowan behind, its scent still clinging to his fingertips.

“He didn’t notice me. He seemed to be rather in hurry.”

“Bloody hell!”

Jegor curses.

“That knave… He bewitched us! And we didn’t notice, we would blindly obey if not here for Einar. God knows how long it would take to wear off or if at all.”

“Can we trust Vseslajevič after that?”

Scrawny Armenian asks. Older scarred warrior scratches his bald head.

“He sounded genuine, but we need to consider all options. Maybe he wanted to protect us, but it is just as likely he wanted to merely get us out of the way.”

“Then why not kill us and be done with it for sure, Suchan?”

“He might wish to avoid that out of affection and all the same be an enemy planning something sinister.”

Svjatogor counters.

“I still can’t believe he tried to enchant us. That was nothing like him. He’s never done that before…”

Complains bushy ginger shaking his head.

“Actually, he did.”

All look at the blonde Ulič archer. 

“To me. But only once. And he was terribly sorry.”

He fidgets a bit.

“Years ago, when we were fending off Pecheneg strike at Slavutich rapids. It was rainfall, he tricked them into getting between really wild part of the river and hill top and wanted me to set one boat sliding, but it was risky, the content of the boat the most valuable and he and number of others would get caught in it too and I was reluctant. So he used something similar to the charm that he cast on Suwarian guards who didn’t want to let us into the city. It did work and somehow he and one more man survived and when he found me afterwards he kept apologizing for like next two days. Volch can snap like this when he is desperate and… Afraid.”

Lanky dark-haired bogatyr, Einar thinks the name’s Kolyvan, taps his fingers thoughtfully.

“The question is, whether he is afraid for us, or actually of us.”

_Maybe both._

“Whichever it is, it only proves this is too serious to be ignored.”

“Aye. I am not going to step in front of Svjatoslav and explain to him we gave up after such display. We are bogatyrs and we won’t be so easily deterred from our duty to gosudar and fellow brothers nor duty of giving monsters what they deserve.”

“Yeah, that too, but most of all I owe him a punch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta give credit where credit is due… The way Volch’s attempt to convince his friends to not get involved plays out is actually based on a writing made by gay_bird. 
> 
> Apprentice Volch speaking solemnly - “Just leave me to my darkness.”  
> Mikula – “Oh shush it, you pessimistic angsty lizard.”  
> Canon Volch – “Yes, please, be of that kindness and slap some sense into him, Kula.”  
> Canon Koščej – “Darkness, eh? You might be cultivating a bit similar image, but you have no idea…”  
> Writer herself – “I am sorry, it seems writing truly in-character is beyond me and I can’t stop certain stuff from leaking in even if I should know better. But like idea of both Volch and Mikula being on what a morality chain the former farmer is and Koščej displaying downright allergic reaction to him which keys him onto what a lethal case of psychological cancer we have here is an image. I mean, he did speak up against massacre at Murom fortress only after Mikula protested. How well it corresponds with Mikula’s canon statement about Koščej “This is not Volch and I am more worried about his soul than cough.” is up to reader’s opinion.”.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truth be told, there is not that sort of attraction in the books. Too much enmity and uncooperative attitude on both ends from the start. The thing is I was haunted by seduction attempt which was just a ploy to make him and his companions drop their guard. Also aesthetic of pale, raven-haired, dark-clad feral magical pair. This is an opportunity to create context where they get along as house and fire.

(Volch gets ambushed by small pack of menkvas – those are some humanoid amphibian scary creatures. I establish that Jaga sends them to haunt woods around Čud settlements, and since he was asleep at riverbank when they came, they do manage to surprise and wound him. And like... While he is fending them off, third party might appear. Olajškin in bear form. Cue being led by Olajškin to temple to get the wound dressed and have some safer sleeping space. They talk, some time in Olajškin reveals he knows who Volch is, but they have no quarell. Volch is spooked out by this effortless deep mindreading, Olajškin says i tis thanks to being in his domain – temple and also how shielded the place is. Volch tries to make use of this, copy the principle to create similar shielding within his mind and also to try and do some independent project inside protection of the temple.)

.

This place is thoroughly shielded. He feels deep-rooted sturdy strands of ancient earthly and heavenly spells twist around it, dense and clean like local woods, soothing even if so different in nature. It is... Respite. Tugarin can't reach him here. And the unforeseen opportunity, it means, makes him nearly giddy.

He stretches on cool rock in soft darkness of some deep cove within temple and for a minute or two only takes it in. Then he closes his eyes. Tugarin never let him travel alone. First with guidance, next with plain possessiveness and Volch shivers when he realizes how apprehensive he feels about making that leap without firm hold of other man's presence. Almost physical urge to draw back, or grope for it. He shouldn't, what if he... And he cannot make the step, emerge from his body. Memory of shattered sceptre floats up, malachite crystals shifting into soft ivy in front of his inner sight. It clings and sometimes chokes to death, but never ever does it take off of the ground without support, makes a single own step up, forever crawling.

Something wet builds up in his chest and throat, stings behind tightly pressed eyelids. He takes a deep shaky breath and closes his hand around Zilant's fang. _I am not ivy, I am the one held by it for too long. Cut through it and through sleepy steely chains. Let us fly freely at last._ And with an exhale he jumps.

And doesn't fall down.

Darkness, stony hardness, canopy of bear magic, they all peel off and before him sky opens and he doesn't look towards lake, still risky, he shots straight north.

Midnight Mountains and their surroundings are beautiful and scary in their gloom. Buzzing sploshing marshes beneath harsh peaks make even his astral presence feel threatened by prospect of being sucked into rotting depths. Devoured in few seconds, or digested slowly, over eternity turning into something wretched. He glides through it, mapping safe passages and dangerous spots and most of all places that contain both - right next to each other.

No wonder Tugarin decided to stay in Čud settlement, as Olajškin told him. But if he could get him there, into swamps anyway... It could be near accident. Bog doing most of the job. _Or..._ Speaks up sly whisper from some darker corner of his mind. _...No accident at all, only quest finished, scales joined and time bought._ It is a voice. What used to be more and more distinct thoughts has morphed into actual voice. He pauses, hovers above one island. _Time for what exactly?_ Voice sounds like his, but inflection is a bit different and too familiar. _There is a reason Svjatoslav wasn't crowned right away. Only after he reached maturity. You need Tugarin for a little bit longer. Do you want to end up, where you started? Having to search for lost art in darkness, when you could have it all on platter? You've tasted only starter so far._

It could be planted, or it could be his future self that grows more Tugarin-like. He brushes on water surface observing crawling hungry life underneath. _For what price?_ There are reasons to become more Tugarinlike. _Grave one. The best things are. But you're already familiar with that, paying and cashing since childhood._ To be better equipped to destroy him. Or to not mind him at all? He flies higher, into clearer drier air above tree tops. Nah, Tugarin couldn't stand another Tugarin near himself, he needs to be on the top. They'd go for each other's throat with such sureness it sounds almost safe.

The voice interrupts again. _That is an option. But you don't really need to, never will need to, you rule the best from below. And you already have some effect on him. Be taken in and taking in too..._ And that's true.

He is about to dive back among trees, when new presence flares up at the edge of his awareness. Crimson and black like mix of tar or peat and blood. And silver. He whirls its way, trying to spot its source. Drowned night, fallen star, there is raw wildness to it, so primordial, it feels heady. And there is Zirnitra's song and it seems more enhanced than within steel clutches. Something in him flickers, tentative and all the more captivated for it. _You are right. But that’s not the whole picture._ And with that thought he starts moving closer to the wielder of blood sceptre.

Third piece of scale, the reason they travelled this far into wilderness, leags and leags from all the realms which could be exploited. He spots its glimmer and familiar sparkling melody. It has dazzlingly rapid upper layer cadence, like flick of tail and sharp swirls, which is morphing into slow longwinded harmonies, the contrast between deep hum and tones higher than clouds, owning brightness of stars with just a hint of northern rainbow breath.

So familiar, but also with overtures he haven’t heard before, because different secrets were granted to each piece. Volch can feel the pull between it and magic coursing through him. This close to final completion, it makes him throb with longing.

But rather than drawn to the silver piece itself, he finds himself more interested in the way she basks in it. It is only reasonable to take a look at one, who’s supposed to be his adversary.

And so he looks, stalks her hidden in mist and mopey underbrush, under thick moss and wide brims of mushrooms, masked by black filth, all the emanation tightly wrapped.

Mother of Snakes, Empress of Dragons and master of the mightiest of them all - Rudrog, who guards bridge over Smorodina - River of Dead flowing around Buyan - Island of Immortality where Greatoak grows. Volch heard about Baba Jaga a long time ago, though she was regarded a myth, fairy-tale. He'd always tell so people around him, they expected it after all, but privately wondered what was going on for real and how could she be reached. Third piece of scale clearly existed and it couldn't just disappear from existence. And the only reports were connected to her.

Tugarin seemed to think along the same lines, throughout many years and lack of supervision gathered much more intel and made Volch pay dearly for every piece of info (made him pay dearly for everything and he found out, nothing was too expensive for him). Few weeks ago actually discovered her home during one of their astral trips (together they covered larger area more quickly). Maybe scale simply wanted to be joined and gave its wielders affinity for each other.

She glows. Or casts shadow. Both. And made starker by silver magic. Form matches aura. Voluminous tangle of raven hair whipping around with tatters of black dress as she rides around on unsaddled back of pearly white horse (and does she ride it…). Ebony tattoos slithering on ivory skin and disappearing beneath loose garments in maddening pattern (to have a chance to inspect it closer, uncover and decipher every bit of it…). Paleness of animal and human bones adorning her and shade under her cheekbones and brows (and every other arching edge…). Dark lips and snowy teeth in sharp frosty grin (so what colour is her tongue…).

It breaks on her face when she finishes her talk with group of menkvas, she was checking on and spurs her mount into mad gallop above waters, swift and undaunted by fog and dense vegetation in its path. _Tulpar._ He remembers tale of north wind’s god’s flying stallions and how she helped herself to them by seducing and exhausting him.

Seeing her now, he has no trouble believing it. Lanky, but shapely, she inhabits her body with experienced ardent confidence. Agile, fluid, vigorous and wanting with no apprehension whatsoever. _Wicked._ He chuckles. But the undercurrent isn’t joyous. Rather angry. And that feels familiar and moves him as much as her allure though in a bit different way.

_Allure?_ He pauses. Then has to agree. Yes, he’s just went on tangent assessing her appeal rather than threat she can pose. _That does make her a threat too._ Charms are most often specifically and consciously directed, but constant aura of seductiveness is not out of option either. Olajškin however said nothing about her being an enchantress the way samodivas are, more of undisguised terror. Could there be something else at work? He has to be careful either way.

They leave marshlands behind and a valley cutting deep into dark mountainside opens before them. Sloping, cradled by granite, basalt and towering spruces, it forms a narrow winding meadow draped in shimmering wisps of mist. Tall grass swaying in the wind blowing from underneath tulpar’s hoofs is startlingly green and air almost crisp and alive with faint leaping melody. It moves between fierce and pensive unpredictably.

Not sure how sharp her magical senses are and his camouflage good, he descends to the ground level and slithers through whispering stalks and water drops. Jaga slows down and steers her mount towards small group of similar white stallions grazing in the field. That’s where the music comes from and its source are two young women sitting opposite each other among the horses and playing pipes in unison. When they notice approaching Jaga, they stop their play and stand up. Tangled black locks, furs and roughly sewn hemp cloth whip in the wind. They don’t have the same intimidating otherworldly grace like the wielder of blood sceptre, but their resemblance is impossible to overlook. _Obydas, Jaga’s daughters._

“Svajone, Faina, where are your sisters? Last time I counted, I had six daughters, not two.”

Jaga calls out after she lands and hops of her tulpar. Girl with bear-claw necklace answers.

“Darva is looking for blackthorn berries.”

“And Ruta a Tiesa went to look into pollution around Fir isle together with father.”

_Father?_

“They should return this evening, in time to prepare for midnight rite.”

The second girl, with string of antlers spikes tied into her hair, explains.

“Regarding ritual, Gintare went inside to gather mead from leaves of Greatoak.”

“I told her to not come near Rudrog when I am not nearby. She’s mortal and not related to Blood mages. This sceptre is the only thing keeping him from attacking.”

“We said so as well. She laughed and took one tulpar.”

Jaga shakes her head.

“Of course she did… Now what of Rasa?”

The sisters glance at each other shortly and the witch with blood sceptre narrows her eyes.

“She said she’s got headache and would try to sleep it off in her bed.”

“Sleep it offf.”

“That’s what she said.”

“She’s with that last captive, isn’t she?”

Girls fidget.

“Possibly…”

“Probably…”

The one with antlers spreads her arms a bit.

“You know, how she is. Gotta fuck her favourite witless before snack time. And then whine day and night until we receive new ones and she picks her next pet.”

So it is true, the slaves they take are getting eaten. Ošlajkin told him all about it. How after bitter clashes with Chud people, a deal was made. They come only once per year and take a fixed amount of victims with no more losses which would come with battle. Much more smooth, reliable and low cost. Also insidiously hurtful, a constant undercurrent of inescapable loss and shame.

He shared knowledge so freely, Volch spent a good hour incredulous, on his tiptoes and frantically looking for something, the old Chud might expect to get in exchange, for some catch, bracing himself for a difficulty that surely shall come later. It didn't. It turned out bear mage wanted... A listener. And didn't refuse hearing something interesting later himself. Only then Volch relaxed a bit, not having mysterious debt hang above. Gods, was it strange... And then he remembered Mikula and realized, it wasn't really. It was fairly normal, only he spent too much time away from such interactions.

(Some more talking between Jaga and her daughters)

Jaga mounts her tulpar again and spurs it towards mountain ridge and into steep forest stubbornly climbing up the bedrock. He’s seen and heard enough, but he finds himself trailing behind her instead of going his own way.

She’s got harsh gravitas. Her fierceness is not that of sun and welcoming bonfire, which wants to gather glad thriving pack and embrace width of horizons in its rays, like Svjatoslav does (and he doesn’t dwell on that comparison for long, cannot afford it). She couldn’t care less.

Something of unbridled earthy brashness of Mikula, against which Volch never stood chance, nor wanted to, but void of his soft-hearted generosity. Too absorbed in her brokenness for generosity and soft heart. He can emphatize, though rather when it comes to reception, considering how he was not able to so much as bear caring touch that wanted to stop him from riding away after his task. He knows what plagues him, but what is her deal?

She tug’s at horse’s mane and it answers with pleased neigh. Next moment the pair shots up, powerful gliding jumps carrying them away and Volch finds himself springing out from his cover of coniferous branches to follow them. Quicker and quicker, so much he fears he might lose them, but no worry, echo of cleaner excitement is loud enough to keep track off and contagious. He doesn’t care about tug of his physical body left too far behind too quickly, soon absorbed in mad dash towards skies. It speaks to him too.

They cut through currents of warm and cold air, through heavy wet clouds and then puffy thinner ones and then through lightest ribbons of ice crystals. Spitting in the face of gravity and limits, pushing forward just because they can. Until there are no clouds, only tingling emptiness and transparency of everything, where he can glimpse infinite blackness behind weak blue, new radiance of sun and moon and more stars than ever. Only now they finally slow down, tulpar panting and his legs kicking weakly. It is creature of air and there is too little of it.

Volch realizes, how tense and thin is his connection to land, strained almost to tearing and it nearly makes him recoil. He doesn’t want to think, what might happen if he travelled further. He doesn’t want to think of contemptuous Tugarin binding him tighter as consequence of such mistake and yammering how this is the reason Volch must grovel at his feet and do only and only as he is told from now on forever. He hates how part of him shakes and agrees. So maybe he stopped just thanks to blind luck, but he did and now knows. Not even melodious enhancement from silver scale, which owner used to soar here too, can get them further. This is where realm of other creatures begins.

He refocuses back at pair that brought him here in the first place. Stallion floats in a fixed height. Its rider straightens and rises as much as she can and though challenged by hostile surroundings too, she jumps on its back, with astonishing indifference to prospect of falling stands on her tiptoes, supports herself on red sceptre and reaches up as if to touch the stars. There is such a longing in her face and such insistent reckless effort in her move that for a moment he thinks, she actually might. He can almost see her grasping them, climbing among them, glossy and sublime, blooming and free and at last right.

“This was your home.”

The revelation is so shocking and close to heart, he forgets secrecy and broadcasts his thought without meaning to. He tries to stiffen its vibration the moments it slips, but to no avail, it reaches her. She opens her eyes, all mournful yearning and gentleness gone, replaced by feral cautiousness. She crouches, one hand grips horse’s mane and other points blood sceptre around. He senses power gathering to blast him away, just like when he attacked Tugarin spying on družina, when they crossed river Sura.

He decides to reveal himself completely. Spreading his mind open and plaint almost compulsively, the act familiar from the many times white haired mage demanded subservience. His real secrets tucked away, covered by all the other freely given displays and poorly hidden sensitivities meant to be found and give impression there is nothing more beneath. Whether he was successful or Tugarin just played along for now, was up to question and he dreaded the answer.

“I mean no harm.”

~~(~~ Some talking, he warns her about Tugarin and then goes back to his body.)

“Take care, dragonling.”

The way she says the address is different. Provocative, but not condescending and he notices that spikes he feels are different now. Pleasant. _Fool. She is an ensnaring seductress._ The same sly voice. _So? Finally something to look forward to._

.

“That’s it, isn’t it? The coming you spoke about?”

Her youngest one, Rasa.

“Yes and no.”

He’s not what she expected. Nor circumstances are.

“What d’you… Think ‘bout… him?”

Jaga got used to slow and cumbersome speech of Sjudbej, beastly mouth poorly suited for talking in human way, but it still saddens her when she recalls former lightness of his human voice, nimble airy way of forming words, that oh so clever tongue. Honey, milk and sun…

“He wants to love something. Place, people, craft, life’s work. He wants to love and build.”

“So we’re to trust him?”

She approves of mildly sceptical tone tempered only by respect for her person in her third daughter’s voice.

“No. Or at least not yet. But perhaps there could be some cooperation.”


	14. Chapter 14

(Tugarin goes to have stern talk with Olajškin, which means that Volch needs to depart from the temple, it just wouldn’t do being found there. He’d better pretend he’s been on the road, getting injured slowed him down, but now hes here to reunite with his master. Olajškin warns him he might not be able to actually strike because of the things Tugarin has done to him. Volch insists that they only motivate him to retaliate. Off he goes into woods and then descends into Paranga, meets with Tugarin. And talk comes also to battle between Cheremis and Helgardians and why he spared Kievans.)

“Why waste energy trying to kill them and risking someone getting vengeanceful on their behalf, when they can be shoved aside without bloodshed and thoroughly dumbfounded over what to make of such treatment?”

“They might still decide to continue their pursuit.”

“Let’s say I made my words a bit more compelling.”

“They have knack for getting into way sooner or later even without planning to and you can hardly hope they’ll be as disadvantaged as now.”

“They will also remember and sentiment and hope could make them… Unguarded and useful.”

Tugarin is relentless.

“All this is poorly founded calculation, risky even beyond your usual carelessness. You had other reason.”

Volch presses his lips together and glances away.

“Personal debt.”

Flash of memory, of life saved, comes on its own and he lets it resurface where Tugarin can see it and promptly drags it down, as if protective of it. He looks Tugarin in the eye again and adds in harder colder tone.

“It is paid now.”

“I wonder when you’ll finally abandon those ridiculous notions of honour.”

“It has nothing to do with honour.”

“What else then? Dues to petty mortals are meaningless for someone like us.”

“Dues are important regardless of to whom, as weighty as the one who owes. The very fabric of world cares and even gods are bound by them, they play into Fates.”

_It is not even notion of justice that people cling to both as lash that scares into obedience and sugar that sooths grievances and fear. Everything has a price and there is demand for…_ He thinks of swinging on a rope, of flying high and then being dragged back with as much force, he thinks of juggling. _Balance._

“And what is magic but manipulating such rules to our advantage? We are only as bound as we allow ourselves to be. Keep up with me or fall, dragonling.”

_I’ll drag you down._

_You can try._

.

“The thing that makes your holding onto those little ideals and prohibitions most foolish is you hope it will salvage you sense of being a good man. It is foolish and pitiful not so much for heavy-handedness like a good man might be, but for its delusionality in your case.”

“Off mark, you yourself see me whiter than I. I am not trying to be a good man.”

It is not even like he could put a finger on the moment he stopped, he cannot remember ever being on that path. That was for others. For those he used to seek out like precious resources or treasure.

“I am trying to be realistic.”

_So yes, please, speak to me about delusion, though maybe not mine._

.

(Volch becomes aware that Čuds are to bring captives anyway, even though the plan is to defeat Jaga, so of course they are for Tugarin. Haven’t he had enough? Apparently not.)

.

Is there more victory in not giving him an opportunity to force him and once again establish who is the stronger one here, layer upon layer of bindings, or is that exactly a goal and more triumph is to be found in making him work for it every time, having to break him again and again, never closer to really taming him? What does Tugarin desire more? What Volch prefers, since this is supposed to be his agenda? Goryn, how deep a misery it is when one finds themselves contemplating this of all the things.

.

(In the meantime bogatyrs reach Olajškin’s temple too, they team up just as in book, Olajškin retells his meeting with Volch and how he doesn’t doubt his intensions only his resolve. They pretty much declare it a rescue mission both of Čuds and of malachite mage. And then they actually recruit varangians who came to try and steal gold decorating statue of goddess Kaltašekva in front of Olajškin’s temple. Somehow they broker it. Probably thanks to Einar who went with them after they sought help of unscathed neutral Permans rather than Ferthskalla and Išora told them where Volch went, because he shared the info with her before they faked her death.)


	15. Chapter 15

(An exile that still cares about his former home going under name Targyltyš has witnessed “big men” in temple, sees it as a betrayal, goes to tell Burmelak, but meets Volch on the way there and he does his best to dissuade him.)

“You can return to your hut, I’ll tell them. You they wouldn’t even let approach, let alone listen to your warnings.”

Targyltyš eyes him for a moment, but then nods and departs for woods. Volch let’s out a shaky breath and needs to sit down for a moment. They came here. Telling anyone is the last thing on his mind. Tugarin would eat them alive and had Volch watch. They must stay hidden in the temple, please let them stay there until he’s finished… Goryn’s heads, this is the last thing he needed. How did they even find this place? It doesn’t matter.

They came here. He told them they were outclassed and should stay in safety and they came here. _They don’t trust me to take him down._ Well, that’s quite widespread and often heard opinion about his abilities, but it still stings. _They don’t trust you in being on their side. They hunted down both him and you. Insightful of them._ Volch frowns. _Excuse me? Is that an implication, they might be right? I don’t like it._ Voice chuckles, the sound somewhat hissy _. That’s not something to be liked, but dealt with._

.

(Some talk, something about not returning to Čeremisi after this, they fulfilled their purpose and then some more things, basically Volch’s expectations blown off like candle.)

_He doesn’t care. I jumped through loops, gave up and desecrated one line after another in order to consolidate control and ensure an outcome that he promised to Vargan, but it was a lie. He was playing with us all, killing time and laughing. He won’t return and… I cannot either. That’s the goal, petty ruinous goal of his. If all was a joke, the things I committed served only one lasting purpose – leave me with no one, but him. Each bridge burnt, each crime a link in a chain he holds and I in my blindness forged._ _Slave, slave, slave…_

.

(And then there is apprenticing, experimental things this time, it includes ingesting a bit toxic stuff that can be channelled into something very arcane, but one needs to keep calm. Volch is currently reeling from the fact slaves are to be brought, Kievans’ arrival and the past conversation and all the previous stress and the strain gets too much, spell falling apart.)

That slap turns his head, sends him off balance so that he has to prop himself on one arm and leaves his cheek pulsing with heat. Next moment he finds himself turning his whole body, leaning on both arms as searing content of his stomach is forced out.

He is shaking and there are tears in his eyes mixing with sweat and he barely holds himself on all four as he vomits. Bile and poison burn his throat, burn his nostrils and convulsions tear through his whole body. Raving powers released, they have no mercy, just as their former vessels.

One wave after another, until he is coughing only bitter sticky saliva. Volch cannot get enough breath, his body feels distant and mushy and visions blackens. For a moment he thinks he might collapse into that foul smelling puddle. But then he manages to push himself away from it and lean against wood behind him.

He wipes his mouth, but doesn’t quite have the strength yet to wipe also his hand after arduous effort to lift it. Echo of crass shrieking in his head and some sort of haze remain, he haven’t purged out everything. It will have to subside on its own and slowly. Then Volch’s eyes find Tugarin. He has calmed down again, but his displeasure is bubbling just beneath the surface, more toxic than those accursed herbs and mushrooms.

“Do you know, what is your problem?”

_That I managed to become trapped with a cruel bastard like you?_

“You lack dedication. Whether to me or our goal or anything for that matter. No wonder you were so easy to subjugate. But I would expect improvement by this time and instead I must question why I bother with you still.”

That typical messing with Volch’s head, he knows that, but still finds the older mage having a point. He feels like rewarding it with bluntness for a change.

“A greater mystery than location of Zirnytra. Or maybe not. Walking over those scampering folks gets boring for someone like you. Defeated gorynič scion like me, now there’s some spice in that. And I am one of a kind.”

And oh, look at him, his feathers do get a bit ruffled.

“Don’t think yourself indispensable.”

“I’d never.”

World sways dangerously as he shakes his head. He fixes Tugarin with a pointed stare again and decides to continue with sincerity and add.

“No one is.”

_There._ These days he’s been courting death, but now, floating on discoloured remains of drug aided ritual, he probably asked for the hand. It has dark eyes that spark with magic, its shade that of Zilant’s wings and for a moment he envies the dragon its eternal sleep. This anxiety feels extremely tiring and outlooks hopeless and bleak. Ilja saved the army by wounding the Ityl drake anyway, he could have jumped just fine and for his part prevent Tugarin from joining the two shards instead of helping him. He still can at least take an ally and magic contained within him from Drakovič now.

He bares his teeth in something that cannot decide if it wants to be a coy smirk or snarl. Tugarin watches his face for few heartbeats, dark eyes so slowly cooling down and then the mage sets his mouth.

“You are dazed, you should sleep now. I’ll be expecting you ready next morning.”

He says and before he gets up and leaves, he pockets both ritual knives and even Zilant’s tooth.

.

(When he wakes up next morning with headache and thirst and weak stomach, he slowly recalls events of the evening and is spooked. Such defeatist death-seeking attitude is not in his nature, he almost threw everything away. He doesn’t want to try those crazy mixtures ever again, he doesn’t like what the awake in him nor the way he tongue is loosened. But there is one more intriguing observation. Tugarin didn’t take the bait, in fact took away anything which could be used for self-harm. Tugarin wants to keep him. Also Tugarin does give him back that tooth.)

(Flashback material - Mikula can juggle things because I said so and because he is entertainer and this is good way to entertain people. And when Volch sees, he is first like "yay, nice" and then "actually fascinating" and then "I want to try it". And Mikula tells him it takes time and he can't cheat with sceptre, since this requires both hands, but he goes at it. And it does not come to Volch naturally, lots of falling things, but he is really stubborn. And Mikula says something "Chill a bit, it is not matter of life and death." and Volch realizes that that's actually notion in his mind, the literal exercise not matter of life and death, but the idea of balancing multiple things like th.)t, idea of not sliding left or right, but keeping equilibrium (ok, that's a bit more of tightrope reference) that is something that plays key role in his life, he as a person stands on number of borders, things he has to appease. "Teach me, Mikula, please." So there they are, Mikula explaining in rather wonderfully down to earth way how to tackle this and they go through the motions and Volch does learn the technique and later at times when dealing with this endeavour or that problem, he recalls those instructions and it helps him to come up with solutions. Also it is nice Se activity for Ni dominant guy.

I do not mean to say that Vseslajevič is Vetinari. For a start Vetinari got it right after few moments of staring and then picking the stuff up, because he is Vetinari and there are no words for him. I am saying that Volch is the sort of person who would look at Vetinari and call it life goals and he is serious about life goals.

Maybe he could dream the memory when he is recovering from magical mushroom poisoning and the dream ends with juggling something higly symbolic that falls from his hands and then he falls too?)


	16. Chapter 16

(Samhain night comes, Olajškin prepares to become avatar of bear god and call on bear ghosts, bogatyrs are sneaking down to do their part of attack, Jaga flies to the Paranga with her daughters as every year, but knowing of the trap has also Sjudbey and small army of menkvas travel by water, they will just rise out of lake. Volch expects none of that, he has been plotting to make the night eventless and is worried only about Tugarin’s reaction to that.)

“You seem antsy, dragonling. Anything amiss?”

Lurking in the shade of wooden fortifications, he glances towards the speaker. There is Tugarin, his expression downright threatening in sharp luminescence of battle-ready sceptre and few paces behind him Burmelak being a picture of awkward hovering. Volch straightens.

“So far everything seems to be going according to the plan.”

And that was not untrue. He didn’t specify which plan. Drakovič watches him, his gaze contemplating and that doesn’t help him to calm down. It looks similar to the way he sometimes stares at Argyz, whom Vargan sent to backstab the warlock. Then suddenly power erupts somewhere to the south, two shards of scale flicker and both their heads whip in the direction with surprise. Volch notices a little glance his way, some miniscule twitch in Tugarin’s face, but he is too preoccupied to mull over its meaning. Now this fits neither plan. Chud chieftain steps towards them.

“What’s going on? Are they coming already?”

Faint almost invisible cold shine paints clouds above. Tugarin gives Volch another look, testing one with raised eyebrow.

“I…”

Of course it’s not Jaga – this isn’t bog and blood and night lit up by silver scale, it is forest and ancient chain and furry beast – Olajškin ( _What the…?!_ ), but he wasn’t supposed to meet either and therefore shouldn’t kn… On the other hand, he should recognize, it doesn’t feel like Zirnytra’s scale, which he knows very intimately. Frowning, he finishes.

“…Don’t sense a hint of dragon magic.”

Older warlock nods.

“Correct. This is something else.”

All three start climbing up the palisade.

“Your previous _koldun_ ’s temple is that way.”

Remarks Volch turning to Burmelak and that should be a safe thing to say, that’s something he should know, even if he shouldn’t know the properties of this brand of magic. Once atop walkway they see that indeed rocky head of the sacred southern hill is connected to the sky by pillar of light that is not silver but blue.

“Great Torum… Night of Dead begins and the ghosts of our ancestors are returning from afterlife to the world of living now.”

Burmelak croaks and reaches for his axe. Tugarin sneers.

“No ghosts. Just an old fool way over his head. This is Olajškin’s work.”

“What is that bear mage doing?”

Volch doesn’t need to fake confusion in his voice. In the wake of this strange happening previously impenetrable shielding charm peels off and he can touch the inside of the temple with his mind, but it doesn’t tell him much.

“A big mistake.”

Drakovič’s voice takes on reverberating quality and Volch senses the tug of magic borrowed also from his own core and channelled in the direction of bear temple to carry the message, a shared spiritual blow. The malice in it used to make him sick, but now only leaves familiar bitter taste in his mouth.

“Do you hear me, you mangy sod? Whatever little spell you’ve cooked up, it’s not going to work. Your petty tricks are a child’s play to me. And once I am finished with Jaga, I’ll find and squash you like a cockroach you are!”

It’s mind-crushing. Even Chud standing next to them winces. Volch can only hope he hid his own worry behind the poor man’s waves of discomfort and fear.

.

(Then all hell breaks loose.)

He looks at Jaga with her daughters and a regiment of menkvas, then at spectral bears lead by Konsyg and then he spots his Kievan brothers and even few Varangians emerging from behind Chud huts and feels profound aggravation. _Why? Just why? Why no one ever listens?_

For a moment he considers just standing back and letting the opposing forces sort it out on their own. But when he catches the sight of Tugarin, furious and menacing, his sceptre glowing stronger thanks to two thirds of the scale, he abandons the idea immediately. He must interfere. He must take him down by his own hand.

(But he does fail as Olajškin foresaw. He wants to hit from behind and Tugarin turns to him all knowledgeable and disappointed that Volch did give in to his treacherousness and did proceed with his attempt to backstab Tugarin and telling him also how that strike will be his own end, because Jaga will only trick him or downright kill as evidenced by the mayhem around and bogatyrs are here for his head, Čuds and Olajškin will off him too and just whole world is against him and the only one he has is Tugarin and he is no one and nothing without Tugarin and there is this magical and mental pressure and Volch just cannot strike and ends up dropping his weapon and begging for forgiveness all the while internally reeling at knowledge that after this pledge he will truly lose all his agency. Tugarin comes near says he accepts and then stabs him with the sceptre, using it both to wound him and suck off magic inside him instantly thanks to how tightly they have interwoven their powers in previous weeks. Some parting words about worthlessness or something and off he goes.)

He lies on the ground, bleeding out, sounds of battle dim. No, it cannot end like this, not this complete ruin… With numb cold fingers and sight darkening he tries to draw a dragon glyph. _…Empower dying…_ It hurts, it hurts so much and his fingers are slipping, his awareness is slipping, but he gets it done, all the lines and loops. He draws in a shuddering breath that nearly makes him cry out in agony, but he can’t afford that. And he tries to awaken the signt. Nothing. He digs his fingers deeper, whines in effort and pain. But no matter how deep inside he reaches, there is no magic left, not a single spark, not a single tone, nothing. His only worth. Tugarin stole it all in a heartbeat and Volch is thoroughly done. It is so pitiful it comes around and becomes funny. And then everything becomes dark and silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to draw attention to the fact that at the beginning he believed magic is not his only worth, though it is the greatest. See how much Tugarin got to him.


	17. Chapter 17

(We cannot pass this grand battle, so it is described from Ilja’s POV.)

.

(Volch has feverish dreams, wakes up to Olajškin healing ministrations and surrounded by his Kievan comrades and is rather surprised and touched by not being left to bleed out on the battlefield, it is heartfelt reunion. Problems arise when they talk. Tugarin escaped on a tulpar, Jaga is tied up, her family killed, bogatyrs don’t want to let Volch pursue Tugarin recovery or no recovery. He gets them to agree through Iľja when looking at him and saying he needs to finish his vengeance, he needs to do it right and he will now that he doesn’t feel he depends only on Tugarin anymore and Iľja does understand that need to overcome previous weakness and overcome the enemy. To let him go, or to let someone else kill him on his behalf while he waits on sidelines would be to remain forever enslaved. But it is time for a bit of networking.)

.

Each step fills him with pain, but he does his best to hide it and make his walk steady until he stops in front of her. Her ankles are bound together, wrists tied behind her back connected by tight rope to noose around her neck. Jaga’s eyes pierce him viciously. He sighs and carefully seats himself on the ground.

“I warned you about the danger. And yet you came. Why did you attack Paranga?”

She lifts her chin, chiselled face proud and unapologetic.

“To get my due. Collect the tax, as you call it in your Kiev and punish their insolence.”

“I believe I made it clear he had intimidated them into compliance.”

He says pressing tips of his fingers to the root of his nose. Tied witch scoffs.

“Stop covering them, Volch. I know they wanted to revolt.”

He drops the hand and his eyes harden too.

“They should have been left out of this.”

Her smile is honeyed nightshade.

“Oh, my dear dragonling, still trying to shield everyone.”

She leans forward, ignoring the way rope digs into her throat.

“But you cannot. Power lies both in you and in your ability to get others to back you up. Your adversaries will do it. You should too, or your potential allies will be lost to your enemies. They want to join someone, will join someone, flock into groups and to the mighty in hope of guidance and achievement. In hope of staying together. They take the risk no matter what.”

He knows that now too. He tried to prevent družina from following him, but they did it anyway and if not for them, he’d be dead by now. Suwar cost them a lot and for a time he was convinced it was foolish to drag them into battle against such a foe, but he lost only once he faced Tugarin all alone.

“Menkvas flock to you. But not Chuds. You forced them.”

“I thought it better than continuing in raids. Now they don’t waste their lives in futile struggle and I don’t waste effort on getting the stock. Otherwise I don’t interfere with their ways and even help to keep out intruders who would. Those tales about terrible little monsters haunting these woods? They wouldn’t spread as much, if not for my bog hauntings.”

He nods along with her invocation of his sentiments. If nothing else, now that everyone avoids swamps, helping menkvas to human trespassers and thus winning even more of their devotion, is clever outsourcing, if nothing else. Meanwhile Čud remain isolated both from danger and from help but for some trading exchanges with Varangians, of which she gets a part included in reserves she collects before winter. 

“Aye, you want your fishing pond populous and keep all of it to yourself.”

She shrugs, dark tresses of her hair sliding over skin of her bare shoulders. Tangled and muddied, somehow the motion is no less alluring.

“How is it different from your beloved realm and grand prince?”

He doesn’t even need to think about the answer.

“Kiev doesn’t eat its subjects.”

Her eyes sparkle with almost gleeful challenge. As if she was sure of catching and unravelling him.

“Maybe not the flesh. Little use for it. But feed it does just as others. On souls. Gods do after death and mortals in life.“

_And something on the borders of those realms can do both..._ Volch feels chills.

“Or is there not a lifelong enthrallment and war?”

Lives stolen and lives thrown into fray. Occasionally killed prisoners of war, in the name of gods no the less. It’s not like tribes didn’t fight each other or raid rich civilizations on the south from time to time, not like they didn’t take captives before varangians subjugating them under rule of Novgorod and Kiev, but difference was there. There was more freedom and independence. And much less thralls. More freed men too, to be honest.

Varangian yoke is tighter, what with leading brutal scorching campaigns and making money out of the whole capturing thing, of scattered people with their small self-absorbed lives and homes. More demanding and destructive in fight, brand of slave a stain harder to wash off. How better or worse is subsequent life is questionable and varied. It was still a chance at life, to fight another day, to come on top later. Or end it yourself. He does know, he and few other Helga’s captives got exceptionally lucky when they were granted freedom by Svjatoslav.

Svjatoslav, who renamed himself thusly from Sfendald and readily accepts all kinds of people and customs, local or from afar to bring together the best of them all and see it thrive. It takes so much bending and compromises even with freedom... But he doesn’t plan to just pillage like his ancestors. He is no stranger, he is one of them, he builds on foundations laid by his mother and listens to other people (for example Volch), cares for družina and has ideas that sometimes amaze even Volch. And that’s greater promise than crumbling resistance, than foreign subjugation from east or west or south. Even if grand prince is greedy (well, they both are) and warlike. Within the realm there is peaceful order, unity and increasing prosperity. There shall be rule one way or another and this is the best deal around, one in which there is a place also for Volch and his draconic magic. And if his loyalty was born out of having nothing else but the court which stole him, it has become something much more and he stands by it even in estrangement. He leans forward too.

“And brings in wealth, knowledge and strength. Kiev is industrious and works towards future worth few concessions. Because it is ours. They were invaders, but they are becoming part of my people and it’s something from which we all can benefit. Which cannot be said of you and Čuds.”

“I don’t think it is as smooth as you describe it. More likely it is just you who became part of them, changed your allegiance.”

Such possibility occurred to him before too and not once. It is a little distressing hearing it from other source too. He squares his shoulders.

“People change, everything changes. Human sacrifices and other outdated baggage are being abandoned for a reason. This is the direction the world is taking.”

_And I shall make my heritage keep up the pace._ His voice rings with certainty and she cannot spot any faltering, but corner of her mouth rises in a crooked smile nevertheless and glittering mischief takes on gloomy grimmer low tone.

“I wouldn’t be so sure. For some change isn’t an option. And some changes have unexpected results. There are things hard to banish. Too inherent and rewarding. They simply become covert.”

He feels shivers run down his spine. It’s like those swamps with will-o'-wisp luring into purposeless chase and shifty areas that drown their victims in muddy depths to become part of fatally dark secrets. He rather turns away labelling the dispute as dead end.

“Well, if that helps you to fall asleep at night, stick to it. But there’s no denying that confronting Tugarin here was a mistake.”

She leans back again, bewitchment sheathed, following the change of subject with crass response.

„Did you expect me to let him come and knock on my door instead? I would never endanger my home and sacred grounds behind Smorodina like that.“

He makes a sweeping gesture.

“That didn’t need to happen. You could have attacked him in marshes. Now you’ve lost those who backed you up, left your stronghold undefended and since he took your flying horse, he is safe from swamps as well.”

She looks away with her lips tightly pressed in a line as hard as wire of black iron. There were her daughters among those who backed her up.

“He doesn’t know the spell necessary for entrance. He’ll never get in.”

She says at last.

“I wouldn’t be so sure.”

Jaga shots him a dark look.

“So now you are going to chase him?”

“Yes. The sooner I catch him, the less time he’ll have to recover and break in.”

He nods. She looks him over.

“You’re not in the best shape either. And I can smell he withdrew from you the magic you two shared.”

He takes a deep breath in futile attempt to find something that would sweeten his next words.

“You are right. That’s why I’ll need your sceptre.”

She isn’t surprised, must have been this whole time on the edge awaiting the moment she might feel the loss and postponing making her hopeful despite herself and that made the reaction only sharper. The way she flares up with outrage and betrayal – anger too clearly born out of deeper repeated hurt and at the same time tries to subdue her reaction with dignified hardness is striking both in its force and because he understands.

As if defeat, loss of family and captivity weren’t enough, her main strength and last consolation are to be taken from her. That much he knew for larger part of his life, but only now he truly gets primal anguish of total loss. Born into or borrowed, Zirnytra’s scale cannot be easy to part from either way. He remembers the terrible moment he felt magic sucked out of him to its last drop. He still feels as if his body didn’t belong to him and his surroundings weren’t quite real and there is something missing and just plain wrong. Such a thing happening a second time…

“And yet you dare to come…”

“Yes, I do. But it is the opposite of insult.”

Her eyes flash and she hisses venomously.

“Oh and what else would it be?”

“Jaga…”

“Trying to be considerate by warning me?”

“No, I…”

Stony demeanour is quickly crumbling away when met with his continued attempts, leaving naked passion to lash at him.

“Trying to ease your conscience by being all soft-spoken about it?!”

He thinks of a rusty nail clasped by a scrawny hand, of a bloodied dent in a tree, of his brothers flinching away from his accusations and decides to wait instead of trying to speak again.

“All that is insulting!”

And also too close a proximity.

“So shut up and go away. Go and steal it. But know this.”

She leans forward again, chest rising, teeth bared, nostrils flaring and eyes like night sky consumed with flames of Ragnarok. He finds himself holding his breath.

“Whatever happens to me, I will find a way to reach you again and turn tables either on you or your children.”

And instead of hurt fury and instead of weakness threats and instead of grief vengeance. He knows them in some deep corner where that sly voice dwells, it is just that to him they taste like icy bitterness instead of fire.

“You cannot stop me. Bind me with ropes, bind me with chains and put me in a coffin and bury me underground and underwater and surround with fire, it matters not. Ropes fray, chains rust, coffins rot or crumble, land shifts, waters dry or flow away and fire burns out, but I am Baba Jaga and I cannot be killed and I’ll crawl from whatever hole you put me in and I will take what is mine and leave no slight unanswered.”

“You done?”

She blinks. He leans forward too, supports himself on dusty ground with his palms almost touching her bare feet.

“First of all, that sceptre isn’t really yours and stealing from a thief is hardly unjust. If anything I as a real dragon mage have more claim to heirloom of that deceased line than you. Second, you can be killed, because instead of true immortality your life is hidden away somewhere on Buyan and trust me, I would find it sooner than those ropes would fray. And who knows, maybe Drakovič is doing just that right now, saving me that effort.”

Not that he’d rely on him in regards to anything ever again, but that’s not the point. Jaga stiffens, scorching power of her gaze wavering a little as a candle-flame swaying in a sudden gust of wind and some more detached speculative part of him wonders with great interest how much might formerly immortal being dread death. Then she rises her chin, eyes hardened, for she refuses to be cowed and that sight makes something swell inside him, leverages be damned. He inches even closer. He smells swamps, cold skies and a heavy tangy breath of carnivores and now that the draconic part of him is so distant, more desperate nostalgy than actual trait, it is less pleasant, but he is not exactly minding.

“But I don’t want that. Just as I don’t want to deprive you of dragon magic. It’s an awful experience and I wouldn’t wish it on you even if I... What I came here for is an alliance. But I’ll need you to stop fighting and instead cooperate. For real now. It is the only way. You spoke of being bound and buried alive and you were not that far from the truth. For lack of other means others want to dismember you and confine every piece far from each other, warded by the heaviest spells. Asking here big people to actually take your head and drop it in the sea or something.”

First he let her savour full bloom of her own distress, now he added to it. The contrast should make his offer seem all the more sweet.

“I cannot just tell them not to, but I could persuade them to let me take you as reinforcement against Tugarin. He is the cause of all of this. Limit your revenge only to him in exchange for release and then we can leave this mess behind and share the scale in all honesty.”

He takes her by her shoulders.

“I know you are boiling on the inside with rage and need to defy everything, to make pay everyone. I know you are already thinking about ways to twist it around because that’s a way to come on the top and that is more attractive than getting along with people you never even wanted to get involved with. Because being Jaga means being untameable and unrelenting. But it won’t work. And you could get and be more just as you could get and be less. Do not force us down the route of the latter, when we can become the former.”

There is slight puzzled wrinkle above her nose, eyes wide and searching instead of narrowed in hostility and dark lips slightly parted.

“Why do you try so hard?”

She whispers.

“What does this mean for you?”

There is strategy. And there is something else. It is whirlwind of notions, of chilled blood and sensation of a blade passing inches from one’s skin, of striking lightning or lightning strike and resentment, of mirrors, of hope and guilt and debt, of fractures in crow lands around Red river, of pulling the right strand and unwinding whole knot in other lands, of someone else trying very hard, of words that made him drop his sword, of scary cold feeling that turns world sharper in detail but completely grey and bleak... _I do not give up._

“I want to prove someone wrong.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My personal favourite part is that one of Svjatoslav’s virtues is listening to other people, among them Volch. I think that if you remarked on it, he would grin and shrug and be like “yeah, I enjoy the influence it gives me and have no qualms about that, the case still stands – one can reason with him (and brave some intimidating scowls)”.


	18. Chapter 18

(They travel to the Midnight mountains where Jaga’s hut and entrance to gods’ domain is.)

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing…”

“Jaga…”

“I said…”

“Answer.”

Compelling slips into his voice without meaning to. She shots him angry accusatory glare that is anxious and hurt beneath. With silent curse he withdraws it before first words leave her trembling mouth and gritted teeth. Let’s see how long she can bear this, whatever it is. And if she tells on her own, he will keep more credit than if he forced her. Tension in her frame falters, she blinks. Then her body tightens in another surge of something. She huffs angrily and at last explains.

“It was the sceptre that allowed menkvas to leave northern swamps and it was the sceptre that allowed also Sjudbej and me. Perun wanted to be sure that gate to pantheon’s hold stays guarded and placed on me same bindings. Now that I no longer override them with dragon magic, they demand I am back.”

He searches the sceptre for the spell with which she initiated her march to Paranga. It looks like salamander and the part of him that soaked up varangian lore wants to call it Ofnir. He scoops it up and sends Jaga’s way.

“Better?”

She nods.

.

(And now some lore which they either talk during journey or they talk some it sooner, during meetings in Volch’s dreams. She visits him there almost every night until fight in Paranga. Proper bonding time.)

.

“What happened to Rudrog’s mages?”

She shrugs.

“Died out.”

“Just like that?”

“Well…”

.

“That armour was more than clothes, it was manifestation of my warrior prowess, it was part of me, godly attribute, a component of my being. When he took it away, it was as if he took my arm or leg. He remade me.”

“But you still remember the techniques, don’t you?”

“When Tugarin stole your magic, you still remembered the spells. But you couldn’t fuel them with power that made them work, until you borrowed the red stick here.”

She motions towards blood sceptre in his hand and his grip instinctively, almost frantically, tightens. _Min… Oh._

“This is similar.”

“So you sought something to compensate.”

“Yes. I am of divine origin. Power might be gone, but the affinity stays, Once you’ve got talent for magic, you can take up almost any. What would stay lifeless in ordinary mortal’s hands awakes in yours. Some magics are close enough, others too unrelated and unwieldy, neither fits as good as the one you were meant for, but it more or less works. A shard of another goddess responded just fine. Definitely after I ate its previous owner. Once the whole is mine…”

“Ours.”

“Ours… I can become a goddess again. Not Midnight and not Zyrnitra’s twin either. Something else. But a goddess indeed.”

.

“Typical. Cheremisi spoke about Piambar falling in love with their hero Kugurak, which displeased her father, the highest god, enough to call misfortune on all people. Permans have legend about Zaraň sneaking to earth to be with her mortal lover. Varangians would tell you about valkyrie Brynhildr and her liaison with Sigurd.”

“Perun wouldn’t give a damn, if I slept with Sjudbej outside sacred grounds. But he stepped on them and collected the water of life and that combined with Vjatko’s dying curse and sacrifice irked him beyond reason.”

.

“If someone wanted to take him from there…”

“They can’t. Rudrog is tied to Smorodina and Iron bridge. As long as there is something to guard, he has to guard it.”

“But taking down the Greatoak would solve that…”

.

“We knew you would come.”

“Me?”

“Wielder of malachite sceptre and wielder of steel one. As dragons disappear from the world, draconic force concentrates into one point. Last eruption, either to take firm foothold in the world from which it has been slipping, or to perish at last. Perun believes in the later, he is striker of bes’ after all.”

_And then he made one out of you…_

“He also noticed Tugarin, centuries old mage who would target our pantheon. Too big a threat. You on the other hand... Your ancestry, your concern with human world, your youth and inexperience… Easier to deal with. Easier still if you get brought down a notch and drained. Something changed, you were not chasing him broken and half-mad. You were coming together. Well until recently.”

“So I had to end up drained and stabbed and a bit haunted at least?”

“I didn’t intend that. Surely I wouldn’t willingly sacrifice my family for such thing. Fates are stubborn.”

“How do you fit in then?”

“I? I am Guardian. And also Forsaken. I invaded the scheme, when I claimed blood sceptre. I can subvert few things, but cannot change my role or the whole flow, there are limits. What exactly will come of this… We shall see.”

.

(POV Iľja a bit worried if Volch is still theirs or not anymore.)

Jaga belongs here and Volch suddenly looks the part too. They seem so similar to each other when he looks at them. Lean and hard but well formed in that graceful way of large predators stalking the woods, dark clothes frayed, pale skin a bit smudgy, black hair matted, similar quirk of lips as they exchange unheard words, belt of human bones on her hips and a dragon fang hanging from his, they move in sync climbing up, blood sceptre handed to help pull up, twig taken out of hair with fingers lingering on the spot, hand that remains on the shoulder while one leans over the other and eyes alight with red and green fire as they examine their finding. They are a pair, there’s no other way to describe it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Norse poetry lists few lindorns – lizard-like crawlies that in many depictions have only two legs (Kazan dragon is depicted with only two limbs too by the way) and one is called Ofnir and that apparently has something to do with bewilderment, so I thought it might be fitting association for a charm that allows to pass through territories, the way for example newts and other salamander branches (some have reduced limbs too) pass between aquatic and terrestrial. It is not reptile, but for myth purposes, in world where there is fire spewing, I feel free to slot some amphibians and reptiles both into relation to drakes. http://www.voluspa.org/grimnismal31-35.htm


	19. Chapter 19

(And they reach their destination. Somehow, I don’t know how yet, Tugarin managed to get in long before. One way is that Volch spied Jaga open the hut, remembered the “ku mne čelom, k lesu chrbtom” spell and Tugarin got it out of his mind when he drained him of his magic and thus left without magical shields. Yeah, just one last stroke of his head as he says his cruel last words and with it he carried away the key.)

.

He eyes the crows and ravens pecking rotting heads. Then he outstretches his arm and caws. One raven fles to him, perches at his forearm.

“What for?”

“A spy might come in handy. I want to see what we are to walk into.”

.

(They reach the bridge, Rudrog appears, things probably o a bit differently, because Jaga is Guardian and her opinion is respected in bogatyrs case just as in case of her daughters and Sjudbej.)

“Wait a moment… His wing.”

Jaga pauses and narrows her eyes.

“It is… Wounded? But it’s only a small scratch thankfully.”

_Small, big, that’s of no consequence, but the reason…_ Volch frowns wondering why Tugarin would need to injure him. And then it clicks.

_“Actual dragon blood?” “Whirlwind and earthquake and wildfire and flood.”_

“Oh no… Hurry up.”

“Hey! What did you notice? What’s the matter?”

_“…Even bring this place down and make it haunted for years.”_

“I know what Drakovič’s plan is.”

.

(Action time, people fight partly as diversion, Volch sneaks to roots of Greatoak, sees the symbols painted on it.)

_“Godly grace is there to be taken...” “And just as we use any sacred sites, no matter to whom they belong, we harvest sacrifices.” “What about caster’s own?” “Easier to master, but most likely to affect him along with target.”_

He mixed it, his blood, with Rudrog’s. to help him absorb the released energy.

_“For some reason human and raven cancel each other out, it kills the whole spell…”_

Volch grins. _I’ve got you._ He summons the raven back down and brandishes his knife.

.

(Killing Tugarin is still difficult, but you see, Tugarin is just right now seriously endaring those he cares about, maybe it is Mikula or Jegor or Ilja who is about to perish and then gives him enough of resolve to tackle Drakovič, there might be some rolling on the ground, Tugarin ends on the top, of course he does.)

His fingers close around bone. Zilant’s tooth. Volch feels flare of something and stabs.


	20. Chapter 20

(Tugarin is dead, Greatoak saved, but that is not the end of troubles. Jaga is vengeanceful on behalf of her family. She will gladly keep Volch's company but those others, those are in for payback.)

“They were my daughters!”

“And they are my brothers!”

“It’s more than that!”

She points at the group, Iľja and Jegor at the front griping their weapons more tightly.

“They’ll destroy…”

He doesn’t want to listen.

“They stayed with me and saved me when I thought myself beyond hope.”

_You wouldn’t._

(Or something of that sort. Anyway, he chooses bogatyrs over her. She says something more and he seems to falter and comes closer for something, it is a ploy, it all looks tender, only for him to draw sleep-glyph on her back or something. Not sure if her sisters – morning and evening Zorjas should appear or not and what shall they do. Maybe he tells them to destroy the sign after he and bogatyrs are gone, maybe tells them, when they are concerned about the picture that it will wear off in few days as by that time he and bogatyrs should be outside swamps and out of her reach. Out of her reach, cause he is taking the whole scale. Zoryas might drop something cryptic as a farewell.)

.

(Outside Volch join the last piece to the first two and it powers up and starts to fuse with him.)

He clings to the whole of scale as he clung to its one piece atop Zilantaw. And the more it hurts, the tighter he clutches it. _Mine, mine, mine…_ And something answers. _You don’t know, what you’re asking for._ _There’s a reason it was broken into three weaker pieces._ _A dangerous storm is brewing, little dragon. If you enter it, it might destroy you._ It is terrible, it is. But the familiar melodious brightness at its centre is too enticing. More than ever, now that it is complete at last. And it asks for connection so sweetly. _I don’t remember time when I wasn’t facing destruction. This is what kept me afloat. I’ll take the risk no matter what. I am Volch Vseslajevič, the last dragon mage, seeker of balance and I never give up._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, if you ask me, it looks like stage is set not only for historical Svjatoslav’s Khazar conquest, but also bylina Volch’s trip to India. :D  
> Unless Sarkel happens anyway. ):/


End file.
